


Dragon's Met

by akamarykate



Category: Early Edition (TV)
Genre: 99 problems but the witch ain't one, A very 90s guy in very Medieval clothes, Dopplegangers, Friendship Is The Best Ship, Gen, Medieval Cornwall, Separations and Reunions, Time Travel, magic and witchery, mentions of the black plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 271,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamarykate/pseuds/akamarykate
Summary: Round and round the circleCompleting the charmSo the knot be unknotted,The crossed be uncrossed,The crooked made straight,and the curse be ended.~ T. S. Eliot
Relationships: Marissa Clark & Gary Hobson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between seasons 3 & 4.
> 
> This story was originally posted in 2001 on the Early Edition-Fanfic list and at the GTA website, where I went by peregrin anna. I'm reposting here and will fix any typos I notice, as well as a few minor things that have always bothered me, but hey, there are a lot of words here. I can't promise I'll catch everything ( _eta: I noticed fairly early on that this was written before I'd switched from the 'two spaces after a period' style I was trained to use to the 'single space after a period' style that's standard now, and that's been preserved in the reformatting though however many rounds of html; no way am I going through and changing every one of those! _), and I'll try not to cringe at the fact that I was a different writer twenty years ago and just let the fic be what it is. (*gulp*) Honestly, I didn't even know where to start tagging this thing, so if there's something you think should be there, pease LMK.__
> 
> __Original notes: Thanks to those who read early drafts and parts of this and were encouraging and helpful with their comments, to the members of the EEFanfic list who sent encouraging feedback, and to Ann H. for her thoughtful feedback and for finding typos. My eternal gratitude goes out to inkling and Jayne L, dragon slayers of the beta world, who came when I called and devoted so much time to helping me get this right._ _

_What's past is prologue._  
(The Tempest, II.i)

* * *

  


__

_I am the safety of the people, says the Lord; when they shall have cried to me from  
tribulation I will hear them...Almighty and merciful God, prevent the fury of cruel  
death from coming upon us._  
~ _Salus Populi_ , A Mass to Drive Away Plague

  


"Sum--sum--"

Morgelyn put a hand to her throat and waited for the coughing fit to pass. She stood frozen on the forest path for a few seconds afterward, but it did not return. She was simply hoarse after weeks of illness, nothing more. It had been too long since she had allowed herself to sing. Finally the song came, shy at first, but gaining strength with every note.

"Sumer is a-cumin in  
Loudly sing cucu,  
Groweth seed and bloweth--"

A wild flapping of wings startled her, and she dropped her basket. Sprigs of rosemary, strips of willow bark, and tiny yellow primrose heads scattered at her feet. Bending to retrieve them, she shook off a cold shiver at the thought that it was wrong, somehow, to be singing at a time such as this. 

The trouble was, it had been such a time for many months now, and surely, even at the worst of times, joy in sunshine and the return of green growing things couldn't be wrong. Spring was a sign of hope, it had to be; a promise that the world would go on despite the devastation the past months had wrought. Squaring her shoulders with fresh determination, she set off again, humming and swinging her basket. She did not bother to hide a grin at the thought of how vexed Father Malcolm would have been to see her now. Before he had left for the north with Lady Nessa he had told her, pulling a face that was somehow even longer than usual, that she should repent all her sins, for the world was surely coming to an end. She sent up a prayer of thanks that he was not the village's only priest. The man was as dour and bitter as tansy.

Who could believe in the end of the world on a day like today? The sun burned in a shot-silk sky, the air blew fresh with spring's promises, and the forest shone greeny-gold with new leaves. Good it was to be alive on such a morning, even--or perhaps especially--after the illness she had only recently escaped. She had missed the earliest days of spring, the tiny tender shoots peeking from the forest floor. Now, in what would soon become a riot of color and life, the plants that had grown from those shoots were greedily soaking up sunlight and rain before the leaves overhead became a canopy that would shroud the lower growth in shade. 

She rounded a bend, and the sun shone full in her eyes, momentarily blinding her with its reminder that the day was passing. It was time to turn her feet for home. There was one more forest clearing to check, a glade where she had often played as a little girl. Even there she found no sign of the broad leaves and pink spikes of flowers that her grandmother had asked her to search out. They both knew it was futile. Dragon's wort had not been seen since before Morgelyn was born, but she had promised to look anyway. She would have promised Grandmother anything today; the old woman seemed more weary than she had since the last lingering days of Morgelyn's own illness, and small wonder. There were more villagers sick now than there had been in the winter, and Grandmother's efforts to cure this awful illness, or at least ease the pain it caused, were exhausting the only healer Gwenyllan could claim. 

If only they could find dragon's wort. The stories said it was a curative against all kinds of plagues, and perhaps it would heal the rest of the sick, the way Grandmother's poultices and prayers had cured Morgelyn. It would not matter, then, that she had survived; the villagers would cease to look at her so strangely. Some of them always did, of course, but most had grown used to her dark skin years ago. Today had been different. They knew she had survived the same illness that had taken so many, and they wanted to know why. She had felt their stares keenly, some sharp and suspicious, some pleading. Wishing she had answers to give them, she had finished her business quickly and hurried back to the more comfortable expanse of forest that lay between Gwenyllan and her home. 

Soon, she told herself. Soon this pestilence would run its course, for it could not possibly grow any worse. When life returned to normal, her neighbors would forgive her for surviving when so many had not. Grandmother said it had happened for a reason, though she could not tell Morgelyn what that reason might be. It was enough that one existed, enough that there was hope, with Grandmother at the village helm, dispensing prayer and wisdom and bread along with her potions. Soon there would be an end to this; soon people would stop dying, and fearing death. They would celebrate life.

And so, though only the birds would understand her need to break into song, she let the whim have its way once more.

"Sumer is a-cumin in  
Loudly sing cucu,  
Groweth seed and bloweth med  
And sings the wode anew;  
Sing cu cu!"

A curlew call responded to her song, and Morgelyn smiled up at the bird, felt the sun fall on her face between the new, barely-green leaves of the oaks and ash. But the bird up and flew off at the next sound, which dropped Morgelyn's heart to her toes and seemed to chase the few clouds that speckled the sky right over the sun.

The tolling of the church bell on a weekday afternoon could only mean another death.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall who she had not seen in the village that morning, but the list was too long. The commons had been nearly deserted. Who could it have been? Her friend Cordelia was rumored to be ill, but surely if she had been, Robert would have sent for Grandmother. What if it was one of the children? What if it was Father Ezekiel? Shuddering at the possibilities, she resumed the path. These days the funerals followed hard upon the deaths, and few stopped to pray over the dead. Those who had in the beginning had all followed their loved ones to the grave within days, sometimes hours. In all likelihood, Grandmother had been there, trying to ease the suffering she could not cure. Morgelyn must have missed her in the village. Grandmother had seemed so tired this morning, and now to lose another...she would need comfort, and perhaps some sorrel soup, Morgelyn thought, stooping to retrieve a few stalks of the herb that grew by the river. 

The breeze chilled as more clouds blew in off the sea, and, her fingers damp from the sorrel stalks, Morgelyn adjusted her cloak. She repinned it with her brooch, a gift from her father after his last voyage--second to last, she reminded herself--so many years ago, back when the nearly-closed circle of the pin had been bigger than her palm. She could not remember her father's face, always so far above hers, but she could still see his hands, and the scar on his left thumb that he teased her mother was the bite of a mer-woman who wanted him for herself. When she thought of those words, she could almost conjure his voice, warm like August sun, mellow and strong. 

Remembering her own dead, she whispered a silent prayer as the bells faded; tossed a few sprigs of the rosemary out to the river and let the current carry them away. Her father and grandfather had gone into the sea, left the rest of the family shipwrecked here--but no, not wrecked. Grandmother had built a life for them, even though her mother had not stayed to live it. Now Morgelyn could not imagine another home, another life. And, one by one, the people who made up that life were being swallowed by a darkness that no one understood. Not Grandmother who knew every healing plant, not Father Ezekiel, who was acquainted with God's purpose, not the physician at the manor across the moor, not even the pope, who was said to have fled Avignon in fear. No one knew how to stop it. 

There was a way. There _must_ be a way.

With that stubborn thought, she hurried up the riverbank and through the finger of forest that surrounded her home. When she reached the gate to the cottage garden from the path, she pulled up short. Someone was emerging from the cottage, and it wasn't Grandmother.

"Father?"

Father Ezekiel, solemn-faced and more haggard than she had ever seen him, blinked at her for a moment, then pulled the door shut behind him. Morgelyn stopped just inside the gate, her feet frozen to the flagstone path. She stared at the black-robed priest as he approached, and fear at what she read in his face turned her muscles to water. Too many times in the past months she had seen that look directed toward others, when...

The basket slipped from her grasp. Sorrel, rosemary, and willow spilled again, over her skirt and onto the path. She could see them fall, but she could not stop them. She could not stop what was about to happen, if it had not happened already. No, she thought. Please no, not--no. It was all she could think over the hammering of her heart in her chest.

Stooping to collect the contents of her basket gave her a reason to look away from the pity and sorrow in the priest's cragged face, but he would not let her escape. Grasping her wrist as she reached for the basket, he hauled her upright and pinned her with his solemn gaze. "My dear child--" He hesitated; even he could not bear to say it.

"Grandmother." They had shared this news often enough to convey certainty with only a word. But never about--her hands were shaking, Morgelyn realized with distant surprise. "She was very tired this morning. She spent all day yesterday with Lara Elders, the babe was turned." Morgelyn could hear her own voice, hoarse, as if she had already shouted her denial to the sky; she could feel the thick fingers on her wrist, but it was as if she were not truly there. She was floating somewhere above it all, as she had when she was in the delirium of her illness. Even Father Ezekiel's stout shape had lost its solidity. 

"It is more than weariness, Morgelyn." His words were so distant, they might have been coming from London. "I stopped by for a visit and found she had taken to her bed, coughing and feverish and--"

"No." If she did not hear it, it would not have to be true. "Not so quickly. She would have known. It cannot be." But it could. She had seen it happen, had held a child in her arms who had collapsed in the middle of Mass and died before the next sunrise. 

"Morgelyn," Father Ezekiel said, squeezing her wrist as if he knew she was not truly there, as if he wanted to pull her back to earth, "she has the deadliest form of the sickness. 'Twould be miraculous if she lived through the night."

"No." Like a storm-battered gull, her heart searched for some truth she could bear, some bit of hope. "She sent me away this morning. She told me she only needed rest." How much time had they lost, how much was left before...

"I am sure she did not know. She thought she was tired. We all thought she was tired."

Far away but insistent, the church bell tolled again. Once, twice, three times....Morgelyn closed her eyes to count better, to hear the toll instead of the voice of the man beside her. Insistent, he tugged on her hand in rhythm with the bell.

"You must be strong," he was saying. "You must accept this as God's will."

Her eyes flew open. "God's will? How can it be God's will that all my family be gone, that our only hope in the face of this pestilence--that--that my grandmother--" Biting her lip, Morgelyn turned her face toward the closed door of the cottage that had always been her home. "She is all I have, Father. She saved my life, can we not save hers?" 

"There is naught to be done," he whispered. She knew he was trying to be gentle, but his voice was as rough as her own. "I am so very sorry."

If only she had found the dragon's wort. She had to try. She took a step toward the door, but the priest pulled her back. "Perhaps it would be better if you stayed away. This follows too soon on the heels of your own recovery."

All her strength returned as she plummeted back to earth. "You cannot mean that I would not help her! You, who have never left the side of a single dying man or woman? And Grandmother never left anyone, not even when their own families have abandoned them. Neither of you would leave a dying person to a lonely end. How could we possibly do that to her?" 

Father Ezekiel held her with that same steady gaze. His eyes were the very color of chestnuts, she thought wildly; why had she never noticed before now? Finally he nodded. "I had to try," he said simply, and let go of her wrist. "She asked me to."

"You both should have known better."

A faint glimmer of his usual humor returned to his eyes. "You are as stubborn as she. Do you want me to go in with you?"

Morgelyn glanced at the doorway. She shook her head, though part of her wanted nothing more.

"I must tend to the burials, but I will be back before evening. Morgelyn," he added when she turned for the cottage, "she loves you very much. And even now, our Lord will not abandon you. Never doubt that."

"Not for a moment." She heard, rather than saw, the old man bend down to retrieve her basket and its contents, but she no longer cared. Only Grandmother mattered now.

The cottage door swung silently on its hinges. Morgelyn paused to prop it open with a stone, needing the light and fresh air. Her home was already changed, already cold and dark, though Father Ezekiel had left a fire blazing in the hearth and the sun shone through the open windows. The pall, the smell of death, the chill that gripped a home just before someone was taken--she knew them all too well, but she had never expected them here. The curtain that usually hung between the sleeping area and the main room of the cottage was pulled aside, and Grandmother lay in her narrow bed, hands moving restlessly over a coarse woolen blanket, her lips working, eyes closed. 

Morgelyn unpinned her cloak and reached behind her to hang it up, but in her haste she missed the peg and left the brown wool puddled on the floor. Kneeling at the side of the bed, she rested her hand on one of Grandmother's, stilling its pointless movement. Warm brown like walnut shells, the crooked fingers closed over her own, and Grandmother's eyes opened. Her lips curled upward slowly, as though smiling took all the strength she had. It was not right. Only this morning those hands had stirred porridge and written careful script in her book, those lips had been full of admonitions and instructions.

"I could not find it, Grandmother," she choked. "I looked everywhere, I truly did."

"Hush." Grandmother's thumb stroked the back of her hand, and tears stung Morgelyn's eyes. "'Tis of no importance now." 

"But if I can find a way to help you--" Squeezing her grandmother's hand, unable to tear herself away from the piercing stare in those warm brown eyes, she asked for permission. "Let me start the poultices, the tea you made for me."

"No, dearest, you must listen." Coughing into a worn cloth--a blood-stained cloth, Morgelyn realized with horror--Grandmother fought for words. Grandmother, who never lacked for anything to say to anyone, who always had kind words and helpful advice or stubborn rebuttals. Morgelyn reached up and stroked the soft grey curls, limp against the flaxen bedcover. 

"You need rest, and then you will be well." It was a lie, and Morgelyn knew it as soon as she touched her grandmother's coal-hot forehead. 

"Let us not fool one another. You know what will happen as well as I."

"I know it can be _stopped_." There had to be something, some cure she had not yet learnt.

"Morgelyn, listen to me. This is not your fault. I will not have you blame yourself. You must do what you can to help, but you must know that you cannot turn the tide of this disease all by yourself, any more than you can stop the ocean waves from coming to shore."

It was not the second coughing fit, nor the grip that crushed her fingers together, that frightened Morgelyn into silence. It was the desperation and fear in those eyes, eyes she might forget someday, as she had her father's.

No, she would not forget, she promised herself. She would never, ever forget. 

There was a bowl of scented water on the floor by the bedside, and a fresh cloth. Blessing Father Ezekiel, Morgelyn freed one of her hands long enough to dampen the cloth and pat it over her grandmother's forehead. 

"Where did it go?" Grandmother blinked away the drips that had rolled down over her eyes. She patted the bedclothes around her feebly, but with increasing vigor when she could not find the object of her search. "I must...you need..." The distress in her voice cracked Morgelyn's heart.

"Let me, please." Morgelyn gathered up the old woman's hands and covered them gently with one of her own, feeling the blanket for anything unusual. To her surprise, she did find something. Down near Grandmother's knee there was a hard, round lump. Pulling the blanket away, she gasped at what she saw. A perfectly round sphere of glass, or some kind of crystal, clear as spring water and no larger than a man's fist, rested atop a silver base consisting of a queer circle of strands, each the width of her finger. Those metal bands were knotted and twisted around each other like the beautiful patterns that had been carved on the ancient standing stones out on the moor, like the design in her own brooch. Sorrow lifted for a moment, replaced by surprise; Morgelyn picked up the treasure, turning it this way and that to watch the sunbeams from the window dance in the sphere. Though she could not see how they were joined, it did not roll off its base. "Grandmother, what is this?"

"Yours, now." More coughing, and Grandmother let her head fall back against the pillows, exhausted from the effort. 

Guilty at her lapse, Morgelyn set the sphere down next to the bowl and would have gone for tisane, but gnarled fingers snagged the hem of her sleeve and would not let go. Eyes closed, Grandmother whispered, "Trust. Morgelyn, you have faith. They will need you, you must call--" 

"Hush, Grandmother, please, all will be well." Whatever the story was behind the strange treasure, it was not worth such distress, the last of Grandmother's strength.

"No." The old woman's eyes flew open, and for a moment they were neither glassy nor confused. "I tried, but the dragon slayer did not appear. There must be worse to come, and it is up to you--I was entrusted, but I have failed."

Morgelyn shook her head, finally dislodging the tears that burned the back of her eyes. "I do not understand. You've never failed anyone."

Grandmother's sigh, more faint than the beating of a robin's wing, held a mere hint of her perpetual impatience. "I should have told you sooner. I thought there would be time. You must care for the village, as I have taught you. You must stand between them and disaster." 

"Why can I not stand between it and you?" It was too much to bear. All determination fled, and Morgelyn knelt and rested her head on the familiar shoulder. She wrapped her arms around her grandmother, wishing she could give her warmth and strength. "You mustn't leave me. Please, Grandmother, I cannot do this alone." She did not know what she was to do, let alone how. It was too soon. Not yet, she pleaded with the heavens, with God, Mother Mary, St. Bridgit, and even with the older spirits. Please, please, not yet.

"You will not be alone if you stand with them. They will need you, and him." Grandmother shook in Morgelyn's arms with more coughing. Raising her head and wiping tears off her cheeks with her palm, Morgelyn swallowed the legions that threatened to follow. There would be time for grieving later, oceans of time. She settled the pillows and bedclothes around her grandmother, wondering at how quickly a strong body could come to seem frail and vulnerable. Her hands shook as she wiped sweat from the dark brow, and Morgelyn had to force a deep breath to calm herself. She had to do everything she could to make Grandmother comfortable, until...

Another deep breath, another hard swallow, and her hands steadied, then busied themselves pulling damp hair off the dear face. Soon there would be no more talk, she knew; the dying lapsed into oblivion for hours, sometimes days, before breathing their last. She had to make sure that her own words did not upset Grandmother any further, that she was strong and kind, as she learned from watching the healer who raised her. 

"Promise me." 

Morgelyn did not realize that she had closed her eyes until the croaking whisper intruded upon her thoughts. Blinking into the sunshine, she watched her grandmother struggle for words. 

"What must I do?" she asked simply. She would do anything to ease this pain. 

"You must do all you can, and you must believe. Call the dragon slayer. There is a reason, Morgelyn." 

Dragon slayer? That was the second time Grandmother had said--Morgelyn bit back one more "I do not understand." It did not matter now. What mattered was reassuring the haunted eyes, the worried frown. What mattered was granting her grandmother peace.

Their hands touched, and Morgelyn rubbed the damp palms against her own, trying in vain to warm them. 

"Promise..." 

Morgelyn raised the gnarled fingers to her lips and kissed them. She would keep her eyes open from now on; she would memorize every detail of her grandmother's face. She would never forget.

"I promise."

  


* * *

  


_In what annals has one ever read that the houses were empty, the cities deserted,  
the farms untended, the fields full of corpses, and that everywhere a horrible  
loneliness prevailed?...Where are our dear friends now? Where are the beloved  
faces? What lightning bolt devoured them? ...We should make new friends--but  
how, when the human race is almost wiped out; and why, when it looks to me as  
if the end of the world is at hand?_  
~Francesco Petrarch, Epistolae Familiares , 1349

  


"You should know better, mate. Takin' your life into yer own hands, y'are."

Shifting his heavy pack on his shoulder and willing himself not to look back at the white sails of the _Santa Anna_ receding on the horizon, Fergus shuddered. He wanted to dislodge the memory, not merely the words of the sailor who had tried to stop him from deboarding, but also the terror in the man's eyes, as if he had seen a ghost. As far as the sailor was concerned, Fergus was a ghost indeed. The ship's captain had swept his keen, practiced gaze over the nearly-deserted harbor town of Polruan and declared that anyone who set foot on shore would not be allowed back on board, upon pain of death. 

But it was not the captain's threat that kept the men on board. Compared to the agonies of the pestilence that had decimated this tiny corner of Cornwall, along with most of the world, being run through by a blade of Spanish steel would have been a mercy. The captain knew it, as he knew that allowing one diseased man on board could wipe out an entire crew before the next landfall. So it was that, once the cargo was unloaded from the rowboats and left on the docks, and the payment was handed over to the first mate at the end of a long-handled shovel, only one man--one fool of a peddler and a bard, Fergus thought ruefully--had left the lulling safety of the wave-rocked boat to put the harder, and infinitely more dangerous, ground under his feet.

He took the quickest route through Polruan, avoiding the temptation of trying to somehow talk his way back on board the _Santa Anna_ , and of making contact with the few souls who roamed the town's cobbled paths. They watched as he hurried past, their haunted eyes asking unspoken questions, but Fergus would not stop to give them news from the rest of the world. He had not outrun the plague in four different countries only to let it catch up with him now. Despite this current detour, his plan remained the same as it had been when he had formed it well over a year ago: keep moving, keep away from the ill, and head west into Ireland, or even beyond. 

Heaving a sigh of relief, he left the town behind him and followed the beach until he struck upon the path that led up the river and into the woods. 

In the year it had taken him to come this far, he had been stunned by all he had witnessed. He had traveled out of Italy, through France, and along the southern coast of England, tracing a path that, had anyone cared to map it, would have resembled a knotted tangle of rope, now twisting in on itself, now taking unexpected turns. His wanderer's life left him free to evade the pestilence as best he could, but somewhere along that twisted path, his freedom had become more a curse than a blessing. Fergus had searched everywhere for shelter, for any of his long-time acquaintances who had survived this curse, hoping one would offer him a place to wait out the danger until the world could resume its normal course. 

That hope, however, had died months ago. 

Village after village, town after town, the pestilence had preceded him. Numbed by the scope of the disaster, he had found himself on the trail of ghosts. Men who had been like brothers, women who had been his lovers, children who had listened to his songs and stories, old ladies who had purchased his wares...they were all gone. Some said the world was ending, and he was inclined now to believe it. 

Those few who had been left untouched by the disease offered no hospitality. As a stranger and a wanderer, he was often shunned. Perhaps, people said, he would bring the disease to their door-stoops. In some cities it was now illegal to enter the gates if one lacked the proper papers or connections. Fergus had no papers, and while he might have connections, they were not the kind that those in power would consider proper.

So it had gone, month after lonely month, until he found himself here, and still, even with his feet marching steadily in the direction of a tiny cottage on the edge of an equally tiny inland town, he could not have said why he had taken the risk this time. This last time, he told himself firmly. This was the last time he would dare hope for a friendly welcome.

Not everyone in Gwenyllan knew him, but some did, and would take him in out of sheer kindness. At least, they had in the past. The dark girl, Morgelyn, and her grandmother. They might be different--not only in the color of their skin, but in the way they looked at the world--but they had a reputation for never refusing anyone help. They would never turn him away. That, he told himself, was the reason he was going there. That, and to lighten his pack and line his pockets. The old woman had asked him to bring her several rare herbs the last time he'd seen them. How long ago had it been? Nearly winter, two years ago, and he had been on his way to warmer climes, anxious to be on Mediterranean shores before the English cold and damp settled into his bones. Since then, everything had changed. A small, nagging voice in his head suggested that his real reason for coming here was not purely mercenary. Perhaps, the voice mused, he just wanted to reassure himself that one place in the wide world not been changed by this disaster.

The track to their cottage, at least, remained the same. It was still a difficult course to negotiate from Polruan, especially with a fully-loaded pack. A pair of wayward gulls followed him along the riverside path, which rose gradually from the ocean and through the forest, on its way to the barren Bodmin Moor. Crying plaintively, the birds swooped back toward better pickings along the shore when Fergus reached the forest fringes, where the early-morning sunlight was filtered by a leafy canopy of oak and hawthorn. 

Though he had a great many interesting acquaintances, Fergus had to admit that these two were among the most unlikely. Grandmother Amalia, as all and sundry called the old woman, was from somewhere in northern Africa--near Egypt, he thought, but not right in it--she had ended up in this part of the world when she had accompanied her sailor husband on his travels. She had raised her granddaughter in the ways of the Isles, and Fergus could never think of Morgelyn as a foreigner, no matter her dark skin and hair. Her name, her speech, and most of her ways were Cornish. She was not a girl, either, but sometimes Amalia treated her that way. Certainly she sheltered her more than was necessary, or so Fergus had thought, until all this business with the pestilence had begun.

When he had first come through Gwenyllan, he had been meandering, stumbling on the village only by chance. He had been pleased to find a customer for some of his more exotic wares. The color of Amalia's skin did not bother him, any more than it did the villagers who came to her with one complaint after another. The stories she had told him of her travels had prompted him to compose a song, one which Morgelyn had shot down with a comment as sharp and poisonous as a Tartar's arrow. 

With a faint grin at the memory, Fergus turned off the main path onto a smaller strip of bare earth that led away from the river and over its sloping banks. From there, it was just a short hike through the trees to the cottage. If things really hadn't changed, he ought to spend the rest of his walk sharpening his wits. Morgelyn had a serpent's tongue when provoked, and he had to admit he enjoyed doing just that. It had been too long, in this dark time, since he had spoken with anyone who was his conversational equal. Just the thought brought a whistle to his lips.

But his whistle faded when he crested the hill. No trace of smoke billowed from the familiar chimney, and his footsteps dragged, as if to keep him in the sheltering forest. It took a deep sigh and all his resolve to compel him forward. It was a warm spring day, he told himself; there was more than one explanation for a cold hearth.

Warm day or not, a chill stole into his bones when he first caught full sight of the cottage. The morning sun had just crested the moor beyond it, casting its rays through the trees and throwing gloomy shadows over the front of the cottage and out into its garden. There was something dark and shuttered about the home, something lost and wild about the overgrown garden and the gate swinging open in the stiff ocean breeze, that drove hope from his heart. 

Fergus stopped, resting one hand on the broad base of an oak tree. He had not been able to outrun death here any more than he had elsewhere. Every instinct he possessed urged him to turn away. Even if he circumnavigated the cottage and went into the village, there was no guarantee he would find better news. Sighing in resignation, he decided it would be better to leave this last good-bye unsaid. The ritual of laying flowers on graves had ceased to have any meaning, and if there were no graves...well, things could only get worse from there. He would go to Ireland, where, he heard tell, the plague had only scuffed the eastern coast; where he knew no one, and could wait out the end of the pestilence--or the end of the world, whichever came first--in peace.

Then a shadow moved in the darkened cottage doorway, uncurled itself just a little from a huddled position on the stone stoop, and his breath caught in his throat. Something more than a shadow was there, a hunched outline that might even be human. Still unsure, drawn inexorably forward, Fergus gathered his courage and ventured up to the fence. Peering into the shadows, he could see that he had not imagined it. There really was a human figure, sitting on the floor just inside the doorway, wrapped in a black shawl, head bowed, dark hair falling over her--it had to be a her--arms and down to her ankles. Somehow, in this cold, dark shade of a morning, knowing who it was did not ease his mind. He ventured into the garden, pulling the gate closed behind him, but there was no movement, not even when his footfalls slapped down the stone path and stopped an arm's length away.

"Morgelyn?" Fergus swallowed the fear in his mouth, then set his pack down and dropped to a crouch, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. "Morgelyn, are you--are you well?"

Her head came up slowly; she blinked, and Fergus found himself looking at a transformed woman--and she was definitely a woman now. There was no innocence left in her face. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out, and for a moment he was not sure she recognized him. Shifting from foot to foot, Fergus waited for her usual sharp, saucy greeting, but it didn't come. He flashed a sardonic smile. 

"An eloquent welcome, m'lady. I know I have been away a long time--"

"A long--" she echoed, then seemed to choke and swallow her words. "Fergus, we thought--" Unsteady and slow, she rose to her feet. Fergus, too, straightened up, mimicking her as if they were attached at the shoulders. The woolen shawl tightened around her like a shroud as she shivered and pulled it closer. The grief in her eyes rooted him to the spot. "We thought you had died. When you did not come--" Swallowing again, she stopped, looking down at the ground. 

The twittering of birds in the trees around the house seemed loud, too loud by far. Uncomfortable with Morgelyn's halting silence, Fergus finally asked, "What has happened? You were not crying over me; I have a better sense of my place in this world than to believe that." Gesturing at his pack, he tried to keep his tone wry and light. "If it is any consolation, I have brought the anise and coriander your grandmother asked for the last time I was here." 

Morgelyn gasped, and, too late, Fergus realized his misstep; the fresh, sharp stab of pain in her eyes told him all he needed to know. 

He fought back the self-protective instinct that screamed at him to turn and run, run now, run away...no, not just yet. Her grandmother had been old; it could have been a perfectly natural death. "When?" 

"Two--two days ago. We buried her yesterday." There was a pause while Morgelyn reached out from her shawl to brush a hand over her eyes, and Fergus fretted about what to say. He had learnt that times like these were not made for his sense of humor, but what they did require was beyond him. Morgelyn, however, was too bereft to notice his hesitation. Forcing the words out between shaky breaths, she whispered, "Oh, Fergus, you do not know how good it is to see a friend right now." 

Fergus stared at her, taking in the weight of her meaning. There were a number of things he could honestly call himself--orphan, peddler, minstrel--but friend, the kind of friend she meant, was something he had never considered. Friendship implied bonds, it implied roots, and he had always vowed that he would succumb to neither. He had survived in this dark time by staying free, and by avoiding almost everyone. He gulped, and the question was voiced before it was fully formed. "Did she die of the pestilence?"

Bleak, dark eyes met his. "It happened so quickly. We've lost half the village." Fergus looked fearfully past Morgelyn to the open doorway, which gaped at him like the maw of some mythical beast. He took a step back, and Morgelyn's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You need not fear," she said in that same hoarse whisper. "I have been ill as well, but I recovered."

It took no small effort to stand still. He curled his hands into fists. "Forgive me, but I have stayed alive this long by steering a wide path around the pestilence. They say that the very air is poisoned, that the only way to escape it is to avoid breathing the air of the sick houses. I merely--" Shuffling feet that wanted to turn and run, Fergus nodded again at his pack. "Do you still want the herbs?"

There was a pause, so brief as to be immeasurable, before Morgelyn nodded, but he read betrayal in her eyes. Fergus braced himself for a barb. Morgelyn was not patient with him at the best of times. Instead, there was weary resignation in her reply, a hopelessness that had become all-too familiar in his travels. "I understand. Your payment is inside." She set an object that he had not realized she had been clutching beneath her shawl, a ball of crystal bound at the bottom by a base of silver Celtic knots, on the step before she disappeared into the dark cottage.

Fergus was left stunned, inwardly cursing his cowardice. For a moment, a door had opened between them, and now he was not sure which of them had closed it. When Morgelyn re-emerged, she held out a bag that was twice the size he had expected, jiggling it a little so that he could hear the coins inside. "Grandmother would have wanted you to have this. For you to keep your promise after all this time, despite the danger--everything is so much dearer these days, and I know it must be hard for you to find work..." Trailing off, she followed his stare to the bag in her hand. She read something in his silence that he had not intended; with another resigned nod, she set the bag down on one of the path's border stones, and backed toward the doorway. 

Despite his own misgivings, Fergus could not retrieve his payment, could not turn his feet toward the gate. This was not the first time he had been faced with such overwhelming grief, and it was not her barely-suppressed tears that melted the cold wall he had built around his own feelings. It was what she had called him, and all that implied. Before he could think it through, he took one step nearer Morgelyn, then another. "Not as hard as losing friends," he said, imitating her earlier emphasis on the word. Morgelyn winced; there was a hitch in her breathing, then a sob, and then, before either of them knew what had happened, they were embracing. 

"I loved her so much." Her voice was muffled in his cloak.

Fergus had comforted women before, of a certain, but generally it had been in the hopes of seducing them. Perhaps, if he'd had a sister...but he had never known a family. He patted Morgelyn's back awkwardly, as he had seen women do with their children. The tears that were soaking his shoulder did not respond to his calming. "She was a remarkable woman," he finally said, his belated admission the only comfort he could offer.

What he did not tell Morgelyn, not then, not ever, was that he was numbed by too many deaths, too many sorrows, to fully share in her grief. What he felt, at that moment, was a curious lightening of his heart--relief at finally finding a friend, there at the end of the world.

  


* * *

  


_Great storms announce themselves with a simple breeze._  
~ Edward Khmara, _Ladyhawke_

  


McGinty's was quiet. The lunch crowd had cleared out an hour ago, the cold, incessant rain was keeping tourists out of the city, and the dinner rush wouldn't start until four. Crumb always liked this space of time. He enjoyed chatting with the customers, sure, but he also liked putting the bar in order, creating a place for everything and putting everything in its place.

For a nowhere bar on a nowhere street, Hobson's place wasn't all that bad. Classic brick and woodwork, framed with the brass detailing he was currently polishing, made the place seem warm even on the bleakest days, while block glass windows let in light and repelled nosy sightseers. The food was decent, the beer was cold, and the atmosphere was so relaxed that he could actually see the tension melt off people's shoulders when they sat down. The place had that effect on Crumb, too. Since he'd started working here a few months ago, his spot behind the bar had come to feel like a second home. Not that Crumb would ever say so to Hobson, but there it was, undeniable and completely nuts: he belonged here.

Maybe it was the job as much as the bar itself. The tidiness and instant closure of bartending were immensely appealing after decades of paperwork trails, long-term manhunts, and unsolved cases. Here, he either had all the glasses clean, or he would soon. He either talked with the customers until they felt at home, or he left them to stew in peace. He either made the drinks right, or he watered them down when certain patrons reached the limits of their tolerance and common sense.

Then, he went home.

Cut and dried. No strings. 

This afternoon there was a bonus. He had company--company he liked. Marissa was studying at the end of the bar, her fingers moving as quick as his eyes could follow over the pages of a Braille text. Smart as a whip, that kid. Too bad she'd had to cut back on her course load to help run this place when Fishman had gone chasing rainbows out in La-la land. Thanks to the little guy's windfall, it would be that much longer before she could finish her degree, but she didn't seem to mind.

Of course, that probably had something to do with the overwhelming sense of responsibility she felt for his other employer. Crumb had the feeling she would have a hard time striking out on her own and actually using that degree without more than a twinge or two of guilt. With Fishman gone, Marissa was the only friend Hobson seemed to have around, and the guy definitely needed someone to look after him and his crazy, whatever it was he did.

He could tell from the context clues he'd picked up in the past few months that they hadn't been friends for more than a few years, about the time Hobson's police file had appeared and expanded like an accordion, if he was guessing right. There wasn't any doubt that Hobson needed a damn good friend, but sometimes Crumb wondered why she needed him. This gig had to be something like being a cop's--well, not wife. Sister, maybe. Had he met her before he'd known Hobson, Crumb would have thought that Marissa had a better sense of self-preservation than to walk into something like that. 

Then again, he thought as he put away the polish cloth and started arranging glasses on the shelves behind the bar, she had hired Patrick Quinn. The fact that the galomping giraffe wasn't working today was another thing to be grateful for--that, and the fact that Hobson hadn't dragged Crumb into any of his crazy escapades in well over two weeks.

Crumb, he kept telling himself, was not Hobson's friend. Just an employee. An interested employee, yes. A sympathetic employee, sometimes. But not an employee who wanted responsibility for his boss's emotional well-being.

That would not be cut and dried, now, would it?

Oh well. Crumb shrugged and turned to the shelves under the bar. No use borrowing trouble. No doubt Fishman would be back in a couple of months at the most. No way would he last out in Hollywood, especially with his chosen mission. The thought of that guy making wholesome, family-oriented movies and television shows was enough to start Crumb chuckling all over again.

"What is it?" Marissa asked, her fingers finally pausing in their relentless skimming. One eyebrow raised, she turned her head in his direction. "What's so funny?"

Oops. Crumb straightened up with a sheepish smile that he was glad she couldn't see. "Oh, nothing, I was just thinking about--"

Before he could explain, the door opened and a customer walked in. Crumb flashed a welcoming smile to the woman who came through the double doors, rain dripping off her oversized navy blue trench coat.

"Welcome to McGinty's. What can I get you?"

Pausing at the end of the bar, she took off her denim hat and crumpled it into a ball, then stuffed it in her pocket. She swept a quick look around the room while she shook raindrops out of her curly chestnut hair. Maybe he shouldn't have offered her that drink, Crumb realized once he got a good look at her. He wasn't sure she was old enough to be legal. 

Her hand emerged from her pocket, cupped around something that Crumb couldn't make out. "I'm not here for a drink. I'm looking for someone."

Crumb glanced at Marissa, who had abandoned her book entirely and was listening with her head cocked to one side. "Are you meeting a friend?" she asked.

"No, I--" The newcomer did a double take at Marissa's cane and Braille books, but blinked the surprise out of her expression and kept looking around the bar, as if she expected someone else to pop out of the woodwork. She turned whatever she held in her hands, some kind of container, maybe, over and over. Slightly bigger than a baseball, it appeared to be metallic, maybe glass, but Crumb couldn't see any more than that. The movement of her hands was mesmerizing, and Crumb's heart raced just a little faster, the old adrenaline rush starting for the first time in months. 

Their visitor cleared her throat and flashed a guilty--or maybe it was apologetic--look at Crumb. "This is going to sound nuts, but I--I saw this guy on a bridge yesterday. The Madison Street bridge, and he was driving a van that said McGinty's, so I thought he might work here, or something," she finished with a shrug. "He had brown hair, and he was kind of tall. He was directing traffic around an accident, or what was going to be an accident, but he stopped everyone before it could happen and..." Her voice trailed off and she heaved another shrug.

Crumb didn't miss the way Marissa went stiff, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Gary?" she asked.

"Hobson," he muttered at the same time. "Who else?"

"How did you--" Marissa began, but the woman interrupted her, taking a step closer.

"So you do know him? Is he here?"

Crumb shook his head. Her fidgeting was making him nervous. He wasn't sure what she wanted with Hobson, but he didn't trust her. There was something not-quite-settled about her.

"No," Marissa told her, "he's out right now, but if you leave a message, I'll tell him you came, and he can get in touch with you." 

"Oh, well, no, I can't--I mean, he doesn't know--he wouldn't be expecting me and--" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm sorry. This is a mistake. I'm going about this all wrong."

"Going about what? Does Gary know you?" Marissa's voice was tense, reserved. Protective, Crumb decided. He didn't blame her. 

"No, he doesn't."

"But you know him?"

"Sort of. I mean, I don't really know who _he_ is, but I know who he _is_." 

At that, Marissa's expression changed to one of near-alarm, but the visitor didn't notice. Sighing, the young woman placed whatever was in her hands into the deep pocket of her coat. "When would be a good time to find him here?"

Crumb snorted. He couldn't help it. The hours Hobson kept were about as predictable as the weather in Chicago. She stared at him for a moment, but her wide-eyed gaze swiveled to Marissa at the cold tone in her reply. "I really don't know what to tell you. I think he'll be around later this evening, but it's sometimes hard to tell. Can I give him your name or a phone number?"

Backing away from the bar, she shoved her hands back into her pockets. "No, no, I--that's okay. I'll just come back. Thank you. I'm sorry to have bothered you, I'll just--I'll come back." Wood and glass rattled as she beat a quick retreat out the door.

"I wonder what that was all about." Marissa's fingers worried at a page corner. "She sees Gary on a bridge, and suddenly she has to find him?"

Crumb told her about the object their odd visitor had held in her hands and her uneasy body language. "I don't know what it was she had there," he concluded, "but I think Hobson's life just got a little spookier."

Her frown deepening, Marissa said, "I think one of us should be around when she comes back." 

"Darlin'," Crumb replied as he went back to arranging glasses, "you took the words right out of my mouth."

So much for cut and dried.

  


* * *

  


_You wouldn't know a burning bush if it blew up in your face.  
And you ask, What am I not doing?  
She says, Your voice cannot command.  
But in time, you will move mountains--  
It will come through your hands. _  
~John Hiatt 

  


There were times when Gary Hobson really liked his life. Really.

Sometimes he'd walk into the bar--his bar--after a day of saves, and be grateful for everything in it: the relaxed crowd celebrating a late-season Cubs' victory; Jake and Elwood begging "Gimme Some Lovin'"; Crumb--Zeke Crumb, of all people--laughing at a customer's joke; Patrick Quinn's easy, ongoing flirtation with every waitress on their payroll; the smell of decent burgers wafting from the kitchen--all that, plus a friend waiting for him who knew what he'd gone through and was ready to listen if he needed to let off a little steam. He liked all that, and days like that, he liked his life.

This wasn't one of those days.

That morning he'd asked for--not a vacation, even, just some good news instead of a constant barrage of disasters. All he wanted was a sign that he was doing the world some good, that hurling himself out of bed at 6:30 every blessed morning and going at full tilt for eighteen hours trying to change the next day's news was actually worth it. 

"I'm not trying to rationalize myself into a day off," he told the cat, a split second before the absurdity of rationalizing with an itinerant house pet hit him. "And I'm not being lazy, but look, it would be nice to know if I was making a difference, if two solid years of this meant anything." 

It didn't work. Leaving Gary with the paper, Cat padded blithely over to its food. No one else had heard, or maybe no one was there at all. The words marched across the page, unrepentant generals barking out commands to an army of one. 

Gary obeyed; of course he obeyed. How could he not, when to do otherwise would mean tragedy for the handful of Chicago citizens who would make their way into the stories he saw? The paper had led, he had followed, and now, though he'd saved the day, he'd done nothing to stop the ancient hatred that had caused one of the problems in the first place.

He stopped outside McGinty's, his hand on the door pull, and tried to figure out what to do next. Marissa would be waiting. Last night she and Crumb had corralled him with some story about a girl who'd come in looking for him. Marissa, especially, had seemed concerned about what the unidentified visitor had known about Gary and what she could have wanted with him. To Gary, the kid sounded like a bit of a crackpot who didn't have anything better to do than hang around Chicago's streets watching stuff happen. Still, Marissa's "Be careful, Gary" had been more insistent than usual when he'd left this morning. Now she'd be expecting a rundown of what had happened.

She wasn't going to get it.

Think, he chided himself as he stepped aside to let a group of business suits enter. It was lunchtime, so it was a fifty-fifty tossup as to whether she'd be in the kitchen or bar. With the menu changes this week, he guessed kitchen, and hoped he could sneak through the office and get upstairs unnoticed. 

The moment he walked into the bar, he knew he'd made the wrong choice. The gantlet of heads that turned toward him included the one he least wanted to face right now, and she knew he was there. She always did.

Maybe if he took a little detour, going around the tables instead of right along the bar...

"Hey, Mr. H!" 

Too late. He tried waving at Patrick, intending to dismiss him, but it only encouraged the kid. 

"We're getting a lot of compliments about the new potato skins. You really should try some! Here, they just brought out a sample tray." Patrick held the platter high above the heads of the crowd at the bar. 

Gary wasn't hungry, but he could hardly refuse to eat his own food in front of his patrons. He ran a hand through his hair and snuck a glance at Marissa. She sat a few stools down from the one in front of him, poised to ask a thousand questions that he couldn't--wouldn't--answer. Not this time. Not about this save.

"Mmm...yeah." Choking down a mouthful of hot baked potato and cheese, he tried to sound as if he actually cared about how it tasted. "Those are great, Patrick." Gary backed away, thinking maybe he could skirt the danger zone, but the area around the tables was filled with coat-draped chairs and briskly-moving waiters. He was forced to walk right past Marissa. 

"Gary?"

"I--uh, I have to run upstairs," he muttered. "Be back in a--"

He wasn't fast enough. Marissa reached out to stop him as he passed, and Gary stared down at her hand on his jacket as if he'd never seen it before. He could sense Patrick's curious frown, but refused to look at the young man. Instead, he tried to block out the words that streamed through his brain at the sight of Marissa's hand, warm brown against the black leather.

"What is it, Gary? What's wrong?"

He lifted his gaze to her face. She couldn't see him, or the differences between them, but she knew what was important, what was real. How could anyone think--how could anyone say--he looked at Marissa, and wanted to apologize on behalf of the human race. But he didn't want to tell her why.

"Nothing's wrong."

"You don't sound as if nothing's wrong." Her grip tightened, as if she knew he'd take off the first chance he got. "What happened?"

He leaned in closer, not wanting to broadcast it to the whole bar. "It was ugly. I don't want to talk about it right now." Not now, not ever, and not to Marissa. He wasn't sure he could repeat what he'd heard out there at all. Before she could ask more questions, or even tell him that she understood, he shook off her hand and pulled away. "I'm headed upstairs. I need to just take a shower or something." Yeah, that was it. Wash away the ugliness. Maybe he could find a ball game to watch, so he wouldn't have to think about it.

"Gary?" He was two steps away, almost home free, but he turned back at her bewildered, insistent tone. 

"What?" 

Marissa bit her lip, and Gary could have kicked himself. He wasn't nearly as impatient as he'd sounded, not with her. Her mouth opened and closed once, but in the end she only said, "Don't forget to sign the payroll checks." 

"Yeah." Gary pushed his way through the crowd and let himself in the office with a deep sigh of relief. He hung his coat--with the paper tucked inside--up on the rack and walked over to his desk. He'd make it up to Marissa somehow, but right now all he wanted was to get the pictures, the voices, out of his head. Signing paychecks was mindless; maybe that would work. He flopped down in his chair and pulled out a pen. 

But the morning wouldn't leave him alone. Even as he scrawled his name over the light green strips of paper, it played out in his mind. It had started with the guard, all huffy and crabby in his little hut at the entrance to the gated community on the outskirts of Lake Forest, and it had gone downhill from there.

"Look buddy, I'm not here to steal anything. I'll only be here a couple of minutes, but if you don't let me in, you're gonna be sorry." Gary's pleas fell on deaf ears until the school bus pulled up to the gate and two groups of kids got off, hurling racial epithets at those left on the bus and at each other. Luckily for Gary, the shouting match diverted the attendant. He was able to sneak past the guardhouse and a few blocks over to the so-called wooded section of the community, which was really just a couple of unsold lots with a finger-thin creek running behind them. 

This was where those same kids took their fight, away from the prying eyes of their parents and the guard; this was where two of them would have ended up with broken bones and concussions. Gary's interference stopped the fight and kept LeVon Jackson and Geoffrey Kantz out of the hospital, but not without a tussle. The words he'd rehearsed about getting along and acting like civilized human beings weren't enough, and he'd had to pull them apart and push them each on their separate ways. He suspected the kids had bowed more to his size than to his authority as an adult. There was nothing he could do to change the attitudes that had started the fight in the first place. They went off, grumbling, in different directions, but not before the white kids threw a few of their slurs his way. While they'd been indifferent to his words, he had carried theirs all the way back to his home.

Gary shuddered and looked down to see that he'd pushed the pen right through Patrick's paycheck. Great. Now he'd have to explain to Marissa why she needed to print out a new one, or figure out how to do it himself. 

Maybe he should tell her about it--after all, there was no one else to whom he could blow off steam. Calling Chuck might be an option, but the last time he'd brought up the paper, Chuck had changed the subject faster than he usually changed girlfriends. He'd left Gary with the distinct impression that the paper wasn't a comfortable subject for a would-be Hollywood producer. Crumb might have understood--he'd had to deal with an awful lot of this kind of stuff as a cop--but he always claimed he didn't want to know what Gary did when he was away from the bar. So that left Marissa.

No, Gary told himself, tapping the pen against the edge of the desk. He couldn't do it. She'd be mature about it, she'd sympathize with him, she'd say the right things. But Marissa, who couldn't practice in front of a mirror, wouldn't be able to hide the horror that would flash across her face at this prejudice. He wasn't going to set this out in front of her just to relieve his own feelings. All of that hatred could just as easily have been directed at her as she made her way down some Chicago street, and that bothered Gary most of all. Why couldn't he do something to change stuff like that?

He rubbed his face with both hands and sat back in his chair. Maybe he really should go take a shower. But then there was a tapping on the office door, and he sighed. "Come in, Patrick." Gary didn't even have to look up. No one else did the "shave-and-a-haircut" knock.

"Hey, Mr. Hobson, there's somebody here to see you. She says it's important." 

What now? They really needed to rethink their open-door policy, Gary decided as he got to his feet. He pushed the morning's events to the back of his mind and nodded at Patrick, who pushed the door farther open and let a young woman through. She was barely taller than the divider, and she bit her lip nervously when Gary lifted an eyebrow. Her face, pale and sprinkled with freckles, wasn't one he recognized. Pausing behind Marissa's chair, she twisted the brim of a denim hat in her hands.

"Uh, hi, Miss--?" Gary stepped closer and held out his hand; she stared at it for a second, then stuffed the hat into her trench coat pocket.

"Kelyn." She gripped his hand and pumped it as if she were trying to start a well. "I mean, Gillespie. Kelyn's my first name, it's a family thing."

"Are you here about a job? Because usually my partner takes care of that, and she's--Patrick, where's Marissa?"

Patrick was staring at Kelyn with his mouth half-open, bug-eyed and moony as a cartoon character.

"Patrick?"

"Huh?" 

"Where's Mar-is-sa?" Disentangling his hand from Kelyn's and shaking it time to his question, Gary enunciated each syllable.

"Oh!" The bartender shook himself out of his trance. "Uh, still out in the bar, Mr. H. Want me to get her?"

"No!" The young woman shook her head, her eyes pleading with Gary. For what, he had no idea. "I'm not here about a job. I need to talk to you, Mr. Hobson." 

"You do?"

"Yes, but--" She glanced back over her shoulder at Patrick, who was watching the whole exchange like a Ping-Pong match. "Could I speak to you alone?"

"Oh!" Patrick exclaimed, when Gary turned a pointed stare his way. "Oh, yes, I have to, you know, tend the bar, because that's what I do, I'm the bartender, and the bar's out there." He clapped his hands together. "Yeah. Okay. Well, nice to have sort of met you, and--"

"Good-bye, Patrick." Gary fought the urge to push him out the door.

"Right. Bye!" Patrick backed out the door, half-nodding, half-bowing.

"Thank you, Mr. Hobson." Kelyn's stance relaxed a little bit, but she didn't say anything else.

"He can be kind of--well, he's Patrick, is all," said Gary with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Whatever she wanted to tell him, she was having a difficult time getting started. Pulling out Marissa's chair, he added, "Here, why don't you sit down, Ms. Gillespie?"

"Oh, call me Kelyn. Please. Ms. Gillespie sounds like I'm a teacher or something."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, then fled. Gary sat in his own chair while she perched on the edge of the other, ankles crossed, her right foot jiggling up and down so quickly it was almost a blur. It would have been funny, if it hadn't made him so nervous.

"And I'm Gary. You wanted to talk to me?" He held out a hand, palm up. "I'm sorry, I don't remember meeting you." Which didn't mean a thing, actually. He ran into a lot of people in his line of work.

"No." Kelyn shook her head, then nodded it. "I mean, yes, yes, I wanted to talk to you, but we haven't met, not exactly." 

Gary rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. "Not exactly?"

"I saw you two days ago at the Madison Street bridge. I was walking home from work, and I saw how you stopped the moving van from hitting the messenger who had fallen off his bike." 

This was the kid that Crumb and Marissa had been so worried about? She didn't look as if she'd hurt a fly. What had she done to get them so riled up? At the moment it didn't matter; anything was better than sitting here thinking about what had happened that afternoon. 

Kelyn spoke rapidly, her head down, and watched her own fingernail worry at a chip in the edge of Marissa's desk. "You were nearly hit yourself, and it takes guts for anyone to stop traffic in downtown Chicago during rush hour, but the thing is--" She swallowed hard, and finally lifted her head, her blue eyes boring into Gary's. "The thing is, you stopped your own van and were getting out when the guy on the bike fell over. Not after. You knew it was going to happen, didn't you?" Her hand dropped back into her lap. There was no more fidgeting as she waited for his response.

Gary, on the other hand, had to fight the urge to stand and pace away from Kelyn. He remembered the accident she was talking about. He'd hoped to be at that bridge in time to stop the messenger from falling, but traffic had been so heavy that he'd been lucky to get there at all. If he hadn't it would have been bad: the bike messenger killed, a five-car pile-up on the bridge. Gary gulped, recalling the end of the article. One pedestrian, an unidentified young woman, critically injured when a SUV whose driver had swerved to avoid the pile-up jumped the curb.

Was that what this was about? Was Kelyn the one who would have been hit? But how could she have known?

She still had him pinned with her expectant stare.

"Well, I--it was slick and he looked like he..."

Gary broke off as Kelyn shook her head vehemently, curly brown hair swinging wildly into her face. "No! No, I saw it, Mr. Hob--Gary. I saw it. You stopped before anything happened. You knew."

"Now, now, wait a minute." Rolling his chair back just a little, Gary held out a hand. Who exactly was she, anyway?

"It's all right," she rushed to assure him, eyes wide and disconcertingly blue, almost like--they reminded him of Chuck's, Gary realized. "Really. I think I know how you knew, and that's why I have to talk to you. I have something that belongs to you." Reaching into her coat pocket, Kelyn was about to say more when the office door opened and Marissa stepped in.

"Gary?"

Kelyn drew her hand out of her pocket and clamped her mouth shut. 

"Right here."

"Is everything all right?" Marissa stopped just behind Kelyn, hands folded atop her cane, a small frown creasing her brow.

"Sure, it's fine. This is Kelyn Gillespie. She came to see me."

Marissa held out her hand, but the expression on her face was a mere ghost of her usual welcoming smile. Kelyn flashed a strange, unreadable expression at Gary before she stood and shook Marissa's hand.

"I was just leaving," Kelyn filled in when Gary couldn't decide how to finish the introduction.

Gary pointed at the pocket where she'd stowed whatever it was that she'd been about to show him. "But you said--" 

She edged toward the aisle, aiming to go around Marissa. "It's all right, really. You're busy."

"I want you to stay and explain what you meant."

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Marissa said, smoothing her features into a serene mask, but Gary knew better. She'd entered the office with no other purpose. 

"It's better if I go now," Kelyn insisted. 

"No, Gary's right, stay." Marissa flashed that tight, tense smile again. "I just need to borrow him for a moment. We have a little problem with one of the wait staff, so if you'll excuse us, just for a minute--Gary?" She tilted her head toward the kitchen. "Care to join me?"

Gary didn't want to leave, and he knew that Kelyn could see through the lie as well as he. Marissa might be good at a lot of things, but telling fibs wasn't one of them. "Can this wait?"

"No." Marissa had already made her way to the kitchen door and was holding it open for him.

This time Gary didn't bother to hide his sigh. For a guy with no romance in his life, he sure got plenty grief from the women in it. "Look, Kelyn, I'll be right back, okay?"

Gary's guest looked from him to Marissa and back, bit her lip, and finally nodded. She lowered herself back into the chair. "Okay." As Gary left, he heard her say under her breath, "What's a few more minutes after all this time?"

Her back to him, Marissa had stopped to wait for Gary a yard or so away from the door. He pulled her into a tiny opening behind the shelving, out of the path of kitchen traffic. The bustle of the cooks and their assistants was enough to cover their conversation. "All right, what's the big deal?" he whispered between his teeth.

"Gary, that's the same woman who was here yesterday when Crumb was working, the one we told you about." Marissa's voice was low and insistent, her mouth tightening into the firm line that indicated she was in full-blown bossy older sister mode. Unfortunately, between what had had happened earlier and the weird hints his visitor was dropping, her protective attitude only brought out the rebellious teenager in Gary.

"And she seems to have something she needs to tell me, so why did you pull me out of there?" Gary reached out his hand and braced himself against the shelf just above his head. 

"Because I don't quite trust her, and neither did Crumb, and you know how good his instincts are. He was a cop, he knows about people."

"He's paranoid about people."

"Not without cause."

"And you're starting to sound just like him." 

It was a good thing they weren't in the cooler, because the look Marissa flashed him would have curdled the milk. She set her chin at a level that Gary recognized as dangerous, even in his aggravated state. "What has she said to you?"

"She didn't get a chance to say much of anything yet!"

"Gary."

"Okay. Okay." He ran a hand through his hair, crossed his arms across his chest, and checked to make sure there was no one else listening to their conversation. The cooks were all at the far prep table, absorbed in chopping onions and slicing tomatoes. "She was at the bridge the other day, the thing with the bike and the moving van."

Marissa nodded without a trace of surprise. "I told you before, that's what she said, and she also said she knew who you are."

"It's more than just that, Marissa." Scanning the kitchen again, he dropped his voice even lower. "She said she saw me get out of the van before the guy on the bike fell. I think she knows something."

Marissa's expression changed from suspicion to surprise, her eyes going round. "What could she possibly know? Does she think you're a psychic?"

"That's what I was trying to find out before you showed up, which is why I need to get back in there."

"I'm going with you." Marissa started for the door, but Gary grabbed her arm.

"No, no, you saw how she reacted when you came in."

"Not exactly," Marissa reminded him dryly.

"I meant--"

"She was going to leave, yes, I did notice that."

Releasing Marissa's arm, Gary shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back. "She wouldn't say two words while Patrick was there, either. I don't think she'll tell me anything if you're standing guard like a pit bull."

"Gary!" 

Oh, man, he was batting a thousand today. Wincing at the hurt tone in her voice, he tried to explain. "I didn't mean that. It's just, I need to know what she knows, or what she thinks she knows, and it's pretty obvious she won't talk with other people around."

"But what if she's dangerous?"

Gary snorted. "Her? She's just a kid, and she's half my size! I can take care of myself. Trust me. I do it every day."

Marissa put one hand on her hip and cocked an eyebrow, eliciting a strange look from the waiter who went past with a tray of the infamous potato skins. "I don't mean physically."

Their voices had risen. Passing waiters weren't the only ones in the kitchen paying attention to the debate between their bosses. Gary heaved sigh number--oh, he didn't even know any more--and forced his voice back down to a whisper. "Look, I really don't think she's here to hurt anyone. But if it turns out she's a hired assassin, you'll be the first to know, okay?"

"You don't need to be sarcastic, Gary. I'm concerned about you, and about what this means." 

Gary looked over his shoulder; he could see Kelyn's wavy outline through the mottled glass of the office door. "I know. It's strange. But strange things seem to happen around here a lot. If I need anything, I'll give a holler, okay? If I don't go back in there alone, I don't think I'll ever know what this is all about." The frown remained etched upon his friend's forehead. "Trust me, Marissa. I can take care of myself." 

"I do trust you. It's her I'm not so sure about."

"Marissa--"

"Go." She waved him toward the office. "I'll be out in the bar." But she was still there, listening, when he pulled the door closed behind him.

Shaking his head, Gary stepped around the chair to face his visitor. "Sorry about that."

"Your friend's not a very good liar." Kelyn searched his face for some sign of...what? He couldn't tell.

"She's not used to it," Gary muttered. 

"And she doesn't like me." 

"No, it's not like that." He wanted to pace around the office a bit, but he figured that wouldn't get him very far with Kelyn. Instead, he picked up a stapler from the desk and turned it around in his hands. "She's just wondering what you're up to. I mean, strangers don't come in here asking for me every day." Especially not strangers who dropped hints like Kelyn's. "No one's going to bother us now, so will you just tell me why you're here?"

Hitching a lock of hair behind her left ear, Kelyn let out a determined breath, then began again. "What I saw on the bridge was real, wasn't it? I meant what I said. I know what you know, and how you know it." She peered up at him, gauging his reaction with a keener gaze than she'd had before. "I know about the paper."

Had the proverbial feather been in the room, it wouldn't have been needed to knock Gary over. The breeze of its drifting down from the sky would have been enough. The stapler fell to the floor; he sank slowly into his chair. "Wha-what paper?" he stammered, but he knew that it was a feeble attempt at deflection. At least the evidence was safely hidden in his coat pocket.

"The _Sun-Times_ ," Kelyn said in a matter-of-fact tone. "It comes to you a day early. You know what's going to happen, and you choose to stop whatever you can--the bad things, that is. I even saw the cat the other day, watching you from the railing of the bridge." Right on cue, Cat slid out from behind a filing cabinet and leapt into Kelyn's lap. She started, then smiled and rubbed it behind the ears and all the way down its back, Cat's favorite form of attention. "Hey, sweetie," she cooed. "I've missed you." Cat snuggled its head under her chin like a missing puzzle piece finding its place.

Gary watched the whole thing with his mouth hanging open. She didn't know something. She knew everything.

Kelyn reached out a hand and probably would have patted his leg, had he been sitting any closer. "Don't worry. I haven't told anyone, and I won't. Mr. Snow explained it all to me a long time ago, how important it was that no one know. That's why I didn't want to talk with your friends around." Kelyn leaned over the comfortable bundle of feline in her lap while Gary, still dumbfounded, gaped helplessly at the pair. "I'll keep your secret, I promise. It's so good to finally find you, and to be able to give you this." She sat back and was reaching into her pocket again when Gary finally found his voice.

"Wait, wait--you said--you knew Lucius Snow?" As far as Gary had known, his predecessor hadn't had any friends at all, and Kelyn couldn't have been much more than a child if she'd known him. 

"Actually, my grandmother did. Mr. Snow saved her life once at Union Station. Someone bumped into her and she nearly fell onto the tracks, but he caught her. She bought him a cup of coffee, they got to talking, and became friends." Kelyn smiled, her eyes taking on a distant cast as she told the story. "Grandma came to live with my dad and me after Mom split, and she was always taking in strays, both animals and people. I think she realized how lonely Mr. Snow was, and she sort of adopted him, too. He'd disappear for months at a time, but she'd always manage to run into him again, eventually. She told me that he accepted all her dinner invitations, but only showed up for half. One night, I think because he was tired of being accused of insulting her cooking, he told her about the paper."

"Just like that?" Over the past two years, it had been hard for Gary to share his secret with anyone. 

Kelyn's expression turned serious; she stroked Cat in a soothing rhythm. "He was tired of covering it up. I think it all got to be too much for him. He had missed something, something in the paper that he'd wanted to fix. He came over for dinner, that night, and he was just so quiet and sad." Kelyn bit her lip. Her fingers traced circular patterns through Cat's fur. Gary read pity in the girl's face even now, and he cringed at it, cringed for Snow and what it must have been like for him to fall short of the paper's demands. He'd had a few tastes of that in the past two years. "Afterward, while they were in the living room, Grandma must have just asked the right question, because it all came tumbling out, all the stories, the explanations, or as much of an explanation as he had."

Gary could still hear Renee laughing at his confession about the paper. "How did your grandmother react?"

Kelyn chuckled. "She hardly even blinked. I don't know what he expected. Probably that she would call the police or the mental hospital, but she didn't. She just said, 'Everyone has a job to do, and they can make it a burden or a blessing.'" Her face lit up in a mischievous smile. "And then I must have sneezed or coughed, because they realized I'd been hiding on the landing and heard the whole thing. That's when he made me promise not to tell anyone, and I never have. I never will, either." With a twinkle in her eye, she traced an X over her chest. "Cross my heart."

Gary stared at her for a moment more, unable to form coherent words. She knew too much for it all to be some kind of joke. He stood, paced, ran a hand through his hair and over his mouth. He had no idea what question to ask first. "Why--what--so, how long did you know him?"

Head cocked to one side, Kelyn thought for a moment. "I was nine when that happened; we saw him off and on the whole time I was growing up. When my grandmother died, I was away at college, but I came back for the funeral, and he was there. And, and I realized--" She blinked bright eyes at him. "--that here was the man who had given her to me, all those years ago, when he pulled her out of the path of that train. That even though she was gone now, if it hadn't been for Lucius Snow, I wouldn't have known her at all. He did things like that for people every day, and he almost never got thanked for it."

She hitched a shoulder. "We corresponded a little while I was in college. Then, after I graduated, I came back here to look for a job, and I stopped to visit him one day at that old hotel where he lived. He was sick. I think he knew then that it wouldn't be long before--" Swallowing hard, Kelyn flashed a sad smile at Gary, who was leaning against a filing cabinet for support in the face of this onslaught of information. "Well, of course he knew. Even if it wasn't in the paper. He gave me something for safekeeping, and said that I would know what to do with it when the right time came."

Setting Cat down on the floor, Kelyn got to her feet. This time when she reached into her pocket, she pulled something out. Two somethings, actually. A wrinkled blue envelope, and...

Gary stared down at the proffered items. "What the heck is this? A crystal ball?"

"I don't know. No one seems to, not exactly anyway. Take it," she prompted, thrusting whatever it was at Gary, who accepted it reluctantly.

Another mystery, just what he needed. Gary turned the object over in his hands. A glass globe, about the size of a tennis ball, rested on a base of tightly-woven metal strands. It reminded him of a snow globe music box he'd bought the year before, except it didn't have a scene or a winding key. Or snow, for that matter. Down on the floor, Cat rubbed against Kelyn's ankles and purred. 

"Those are Celtic knots." Kelyn traced one narrow path of tarnished metal. "They symbolize eternity, I think. This whole thing is old. Very old. It's been in my family for generations, apparently, but we're just caretakers. I didn't know anything about it until Mr. Snow gave it to me. The letter is from my grandma to him, but I don't think either of them will care if you read it." 

She watched Gary. He knew she was waiting for a response, but he had no idea what to say. "What is this thing supposed to do?" he finally managed.

Kelyn frowned. "I think it's more a matter of what it needs you to do, if you're the right one. But it's all in the letter." She held the envelope up again, and, when Gary took it, pulled her hat out of the other pocket and squashed it down over her curls. "That's all I know about it, and all Mr. Snow ever knew, as well. When he gave it to me, he told me that he was too old for magic. I don't know if he meant this, or that paper of his. Yours, now," she added with a wry smile that widened as she added, "You have no idea what a relief this is. I never thought I'd find anyone else like Mr. Snow."

"Did he know about me?" Gary set the little globe on his desk, unsure that he had any business taking it. It mattered a heck of a lot less to him right now than learning more about Lucius Snow and the paper. "Did he know that anyone at all would get the paper after him?"

"He didn't say. He certainly never mentioned your name, or you would have been a good deal easier to find. So you--" She waved her hand in the air. "You run around Chicago doing good deeds, too? Just like him?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Well, then, it looks like the city's in good hands. Mr. Snow would have been glad to know that. I think he would have liked you, Gary Hobson."

Gary was still trying to put it all together, to figure out why in the world he would need a crystal ball. Or, if Kelyn was right, why it would need him. Either way, it didn't make much sense. To make matters worse, as he shook her hand again, he read something in her eyes: the same pity she'd had for Snow. This kid felt sorry for him.

Because of the paper. Because she didn't see just him, she saw what he could be, after a few more years of days like today. A lonely stray who'd be lucky to be taken in by a kind-hearted stranger. Kelyn looked at her watch and clucked her tongue.

"I really have to go. I have to be at work in twenty minutes. If there's ever anything I can do, if you ever want to hear more about Mr. Snow, not that there's a lot to tell, just look me up, okay? I work at the Regenstein Library over at the University of Chicago. Bye, Cat," she added, scratching the top of the tabby's head.

"Sure, sure, I'll do that." Gary wasn't sure if he meant what he was saying. He didn't know if he could take that look again. "I--uh, thanks." With a wave of his hand, he indicated the contraption on his desk.

"Don't thank me until you've read that letter." Kelyn waved as she rounded the divider, and was gone.

Gary scratched the back of his head furiously, until he remembered how Chuck had always said he'd get a bald spot doing that. Sinking heavily into his chair, he stared for a moment at the objects on his desk, then picked up the envelope, pulled the letter out, waited for a couple seconds to make sure it wasn't going to self-destruct, and propped his feet up on the desk and read.

The handwriting was neat, precise; black ball-point on unlined, pale blue paper.

_My dear Lucius,_

_This is something that I think should rightfully go to you. It has been in my family  
for as long as anyone I can remember was able to remember. There are interesting  
stories associated with it, most of which are probably pure baloney, but the idea  
that comes through in all of them is that we hold this as a trust, until we can find  
the right person to do what needs to be done. _

_My family came from Cornwall, which, interestingly enough, is also where the legends  
say King Arthur was born. Depending on which stories one believes, our ancestors  
were either bards, nomads, or common thieves. The truth is, they were probably all of  
the above and more. Or less, depending on your point of view. But I digress. Which,  
I am sure, does not surprise you in the least._

_What all the layers of legend, malarkey, and pure bull boil down to, is that there's  
something special about this--and no, it's not a crystal ball; or at least, no one I know  
of has ever seen the future with it. The story goes that once, long ago, it could be used to  
call for a hero in times of great need; that some special magic would allow it to send a cry  
for help across time and distance, if only the right person had the glass in hand  
to receive the call. Our family was charged with finding a hero to fulfill the duty._

_I know of no one more heroic than you, Lucius. When my mother gave this to me we laughed  
about the old stories, and I thought it nothing more than a family heirloom. But knowing  
you has changed all that. I see now that the knights and dragon slayers never really died out;  
they've only taken on new guises. I've no wish to add to your responsibilities, and I honestly  
don't know if there's any truth or magic left in the stories and the globe. Perhaps it is no more  
than a talisman. I want you to have it because you, my dear friend, deserve something to mark  
the fact that one person here in Chicago knows and honors who you are: a dragon slayer with  
a newspaper for a sword._

_Your friend,  
Amanda Gillespie_

Gary frowned at the letter as he read it through again. So what was the big deal? Sounded like a crazy family story to him, the kind of thing that people who kept trunks in their attics passed down like a multigenerational game of "Operator." Whatever the thing had meant, it surely was nothing more than a relic now.

He pocketed the letter and picked up the glass globe. It was nothing important, not compared to the disturbing fact that someone else knew about the paper, which could complicate his life at some point down the line. Or maybe not. Kelyn Gillespie seemed to take the fact that he got tomorrow's news today in her stride, at the same time respecting the need to keep it quiet. She'd never caused Lucius Snow any problems. She'd even hesitated to say anything to Marissa, of all people.

He really ought to go out and talk to her. But that would mean explaining his earlier behavior, and he still hadn't figured out how to keep the details of the save from her. Maybe he should--

The smile fell from his face as he stared at the item in his hand. Right before his eyes, as he was holding it, the clear globe began to change, to swirl with colors, so faint that he was sure, at first, that he must have imagined them. But when he held it up in the sunshine streaming through the back office window, the colors went right on changing--blue, purple, red, gold, green. Though the window wasn't open, a cold breeze brushed the back of his neck, and Gary jumped, dropping the crystal ball. It rolled under the desk, and the energetic swirl of color blinked out, as if someone had thrown a switch.

"What the hell?" he whispered, but he broke off when, from the file cabinet where it had definitely not been a few seconds ago, Cat leapt into his arms. They shared a split-second, wide-eyed stare, and then Cat jumped the rest of the way to the floor, pawing at the globe until Gary bent to retrieve it. Cat pawed at his hair and mewed loudly in his ear while he rolled the thing out from under the desk.

"Cut it out, would ya? I don't know what it's for, either." Gary brushed cat hair off his shoulders and stood up, globe in hand. Cat's mewling rose to a yowl and it jumped from the floor to the desk in a blur. Perched atop a pile of Braille printouts, it fixed Gary with a look that said it wanted something, and that if only they both knew Morse code, it would be tapping its paws to get the message across.

Gary looked at the globe again, but the colors had gone. If not for Cat's odd behavior, he would have chalked up the whole thing to his own frustrating day and the overactive imaginations of Kelyn Gillespie and her family. Cat was still making noise, though, and Gary knew that, no matter how little the thing had meant to Snow, it was probably going to make his own life more complicated. 

Because he needed that. 

Damn.

Why couldn't whoever ran these things just put what it wanted in print? Why did he have to figure all this stuff out on his own? It wasn't bad enough the paper came between Gary and his love life, his best friends, even his parents--now it had to throw another wrench into the works.

"Well, I'm not doing it, whatever it is," Gary declared firmly. He set the globe down on the desk next to Cat. "I'm going upstairs and I'm going to order a pizza and watch ESPN, even if it's Australian Rules Square Dancing."

But Cat made it to the stairs before Gary, blocking his way and hissing indignantly. When Gary would have stepped over it, the animal went nuts, yowling and pawing at him. It actually got one claw up under his pants leg and left a painful scratch.

"What is your problem?" 

In response, Cat bounded back onto the desk and nudged the globe with its nose.

"Oh, no. Huh-uh. You think you're gonna keep me from relaxing in my own home? I'm just gonna go out to my bar and have a drink." He'd find something to tell Marissa. Dodging her questions would be easier than whatever the heck was going on here. 

Cat leapt to the divider, screeching in Gary's ear as it launched itself toward the door. It landed on Gary's hand, claws out, and took several layers of skin along with it as it dropped to the floor. "Damn!" Gary bent double, his left hand covering the scratches on his right. "What the hell is--"

The door swung open, catching the top of his head with its edge.

" _Ow_!" He stumbled back into the office, blinking through big dark splotches.

"Gary? Oh my God, I didn't know you were there--what's happened?" Marissa came through the doorway, but stopped before she rounded the divider.

"Door hit me on the head. Cat's insane," he spat through clenched teeth and a pounding headache. 

"Cat? What's he yowling about? Gary, what is going on?" Marissa had to raise her voice over the cat's insistent cries. Gary blinked dark spots away and snatched the globe just to shut the feline up. He pulled his coat off the hook, shoved his arms through the sleeves and the crystal ball into a pocket, and started for the door. This was his chance to escape.

Marissa reached out a hand. "Where are you going? Are you okay? Let me help you."

"I'm fine." He edged toward the door.

"Nothing about this sounds fine." She caught his sleeve as he edged past her. "What is Cat so upset about? Why won't you talk to me? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he snapped peevishly. The last thing he needed right now was to rehash the past few hours of his bizarre life. "Just--just drop it, okay? I gotta--I gotta go think."

"But Gary--" The hurt look on her face--how many times was that today?--was enough to send him out the door even faster. He was being a jerk, and he knew it. But there were more important things than hurt feelings going on here. Well, stranger things, anyway. And right now he wanted to put as much distance between himself and his pathological cat as he could. Oblivious to the stares from Patrick and his customers, Gary stalked through the bar and out onto Illinois Street, headed for the lake.


	2. Chapter 2

_I could cut you off with a shoulder of stone,  
Smoke all night and leave the party alone,  
Screw myself with an inscrutable pout,  
But I just want you to come figure me out.  
I don't want to be another mystery, oh no._  
~Dar Williams

  


Gary was exactly where she had suspected he'd be. Technically, it was Spike who found him, but Marissa knew this lakeside park and this particular bench well enough to get to it unassisted. It was Spike's "woof" of greeting, and the squeak of leather and the scrape of denim, that told her it was her friend on the bench.

"Gary?" she asked, just to be sure.

"Yeah." His voice was distant, as if filtered through a phone line. She tugged Spike around until they stood in front of the bench, a gentle breeze from the lake hitting her back, making her shiver in her thin cotton sweater.

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

"I would if I could," he mumbled. 

"But you can't so you won't?" His earlier irritation was gone, but he wasn't making this easy. Marissa took a deep breath. "Come on, Gary, it's not as if there's nothing you can tell me. Start with what that girl said to you. That is, if you trust me." Gary didn't respond, and she wasn't picking up any clues as to his emotional state, so to be safe, she added, "If it's not something you want to talk about, that's okay, but it just seemed from the way you acted when you left that you needed a friendly ear. If not?" She shrugged as casually as she could. "Just tell me to get lost, and I'll be out of here."

"So you just came here to help?" There was an undertone in his voice, wry, but not angry or sarcastic. "You're not curious at all?"

"Maybe a little curious," Marissa admitted with a smile. "But I'll go if you want to be alone." She waited for him to tell her that he had left the bar precisely because he did want to be alone, but the reprimand never came. Thrown by his silence, she blurted out, "Gary, are you all right?" It was all she wanted to know; it was the only reason she'd come looking for him.

"Yeah." Gary's sigh was barely audible. The scrape of leaves on the pavement behind them was a reminder that summer's hold on the city had broken during last week's cold snap.

"You don't sound all right. Back in the bar you sounded all wrong."

There was a momentary pause; when Gary spoke, his voice was more definite, more _there_ , with her instead of lost and brooding. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have--"

"But you did, and rather than an apology, I'd like a reason. What happened earlier today, and then with Kelyn Gillespie, it's got you upset, and I'd like to help if I can." He didn't answer, and for a moment they both fell silent. A group of children--young children, from the sounds of their voices--ran by, shouting at the gulls overhead. 

Leather squeaked; the toe of Gary's boot brushed her ankle as he shifted his long legs. "You know," he finally drawled, "I come out here when I need to think. It feels so far away from everything."

Why couldn't he just come right out and say what was bothering him? "What is it you want to get away from?"

He didn't answer that. Instead, he stood. "Hold out your hand." 

Marissa shifted Spike's harness out of the way and extended her palm. In it Gary placed something heavy, compact, and smooth. There was a spherical surface, a globe of something polished, marble, maybe, or glass. Supporting it was a stand, almost like a candle holder, made of metal that had been carved or twisted into a thick filigree. 

An overwhelming sense of sadness, centuries old, came over her. Whatever this was, it felt ancient and worn, as if many hands had held it before hers, smoothing its surfaces over the course of centuries. Marissa shivered.

"You cold?"

"No, it's just--what is this, Gary?"

"She said it was from Lucius Snow." His voice was nearly a whisper, though Marissa couldn't hear anyone nearby. "She knew to give it to me when she saw what happened at the bridge the other day. Look, can we walk or something?" Knowing how antsy he could get when he was upset, Marissa nodded. She and Spike fell into step with Gary on the path to the lake shore, hurrying to keep up while Gary outlined his conversation with Kelyn, and what he'd read in the letter. By the time he'd finished, they were nearly to the pier. Fine sand from the beach just off the path gritted under her boots. The strange contraption balanced in her free hand seemed heavier than it had at first. 

"My God, Gary, this is so strange. What are you going to do?"

Taking refuge in sarcasm, he snapped, "Well, I don't know, but I'm sure if I ask the cat it will be glad to type up some directions." Stone scattered across the pavement. Marissa bit back the impulse to tell him he'd scuff his shoes, kicking gravel around like that. "This is so typical," Gary continued. "Just when I have things under control, sort of, the damn thing throws me another curve ball."

"Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Isn't this better than being bored?"

"B-bored?" he sputtered. "Right, Marissa, it's a real yawn running from disaster to disaster, and I just wish there were more of them. But since there aren't, I'll settle for this little complication, no problem."

"You don't even know what it is!" Marissa forced herself to calm down. She wasn't going to lash back at an attack that she knew was not really directed at her. "It's more than just this that has you upset, I know it is, because you were out of sorts before Kelyn showed up. What's got you so frustrated?"

He didn't answer.

"What happened with the paper? I thought it was just a neighborhood tussle that you had to stop."

"It's not that."

He was such a liar. She just wished she knew why. "What is it, then?"

There was a long pause; their footsteps slowed in unison. "Everything. The responsibilities, the stories. Sometimes it's all too much. Sometimes it feels like this city's alive, and there's no end to what it wants from me." 

Marissa didn't have a response to that. He wouldn't want to hear that she thought he had taken on at least some of that responsibility himself, that it was his to accept or reject. If he'd been snappy with her before, that little gem of wisdom would probably get her head taken off. She juggled Spike's harness and the globe as they walked, trying to find some clue, wondering what it all meant and when Gary would be able to see past his own funk and figure it out.

"How many times is this gonna happen?" he groused. "Not just the paper, but all this guy's unfinished business?"

"You mean Lucius Snow's?" 

Gary grunted. 

"I don't think you have any right to be upset with him, not if he didn't even know what this thing was."

"Then why the hell did he pawn it off on me?" 

"He didn't. He didn't even know you."

"Well, Kelyn, then. What gives her--what gives anyone the right to--"

"All right, stop right there." Marissa reigned Spike in and they all came to a halt. This was about more than some family heirloom. "Would you please tell me what's really bothering you?"

"It's hard to explain." Gary's voice was going over her head, out to the lake, as if he wasn't even looking at her. "I don't know, it's just--that girl kept talking about Lucius Snow, and I could tell she felt sorry for the guy. She didn't think he was crazy, but she called him one of the strays her grandmother collected. And she looked at me the same way, because she knew what the paper had done to him, and what it had taken away from him, and she knew it was doing the same thing to me."

"Well, she's wrong. You are not Lucius Snow, Gary, not by a long shot."

"Give me one good reason why I won't turn into him in the next...oh, however many decades this paper is going to be coming to me."

One? She could give him a dozen. "What about the fact that you have a life outside of the paper? You have your family, you have McGinty's, which, I might add, you have because of that paper, and--" Not sure she wanted to continue that line of conversation, Marissa bit her lip and started walking again.

"And what?" Gary asked.

Out of habit, Spike turned onto the pier when they reached it, and she followed. "Never mind." 

Gary was right on her heels. "No, really, what?"

She sighed. "You just don't get it, do you? You make all these comments about how rotten the paper has made your life and you don't even realize--" This was definitely the wrong time to bring this up. He was already out of sorts. She never should have opened her mouth, but the truth was, taking the brunt of his moodiness wore her out sometimes.

"Realize what?" Instead of impatience, there was genuine curiosity in Gary's voice. Well, at least she'd gotten his mind off whatever gloomy track it had been on for the last little while.

Pulling Spike to another halt, Marissa turned so that she was standing face to face with Gary, letting him know that this was important. "Does the fact that we're friends mean anything to you? Anything at all?" 

Her question shocked him into his trademark stutter. "Of course it does. You know it does. But what--"

"What does that have to do with the paper? Everything." Marissa emphasized her pronouncement with a sharp wave of the crystal ball she still held. "Without that paper, you would have just walked out of Strauss and Associates on the day you quit. And you would have quit, paper or not, because that job was making you miserable. You would have said good-bye, and that would have been it."

"Not necessarily."

"Not necessarily." Marissa tugged Spike between them, hoping Gary would be reminded of the day they'd come to be more than co-workers. "But probably. You know how those things go." She waited for a few moments, but Gary didn't answer. "As much trouble as it's caused, I'm grateful to that paper. I'm thankful that it picked the right person to come to, and that I'm fortunate enough to be someone you trust with your secret. I owe you so much, Gary," Marissa continued in a gentler tone, "but above all, I owe you my friendship, and my honesty. And to be honest, I think you're being a coward about this." She thrust the globe toward him. "Take it. You'll know what to do with it when the time comes." 

He lifted the globe from her hands. "Marissa--" His voice was thick, but he fell into step as she continued down the pier. 

"Don't say it."

"But I--"

"I know. Just worry about this thing now, all right?" She hadn't meant to cause a scene, and she wasn't about to let it go any further.

"Yeah. All right." But Gary reached over and squeezed her shoulder, an awkward acknowledgment of all that lay unsaid between them. He still hadn't told her everything, but she was satisfied for the moment. Relief brought a smile to her face, and a renewed determination to help him, if she could.

"So," she said briskly, "what we're dealing with here is some kind of old--"

"Very old."

"All right, very old, maybe even ancient--what?--a promise, a spell, an obligation?"

"A charge, the letter said. Some kind of duty." 

"One which may not be yours to fulfill, if it even exists anymore. Kelyn and her grandmother were just guessing. You and Lucius Snow seemed like helpful types."

"Helpful," Gary echoed with a snort. 

"Okay, so that's an understatement."

"Maybe I should just get rid of it. I'm not sure I trust it. Earlier, right before I left the bar, it--" Gary paused. "This is gonna sound nuts."

"That's okay," Marissa deadpanned, "I've taken courses in nuts." 

"Huh." Gary's elbow nudged hers as they walked. "The thing is, I swear, when I picked it up in the office, it changed colors. I mean, I could see colors inside. It's clear. The glass part," he explained belatedly. "But for a while there, it wasn't. I didn't know what was happening, and that's when Cat started going nuts."

"Nothing else happened?"

"No, and it stopped when I dropped it. I might have imagined it."

"It's not doing anything now, is it?"

"Uh, no, don't think so."

"I wouldn't worry about it." Marissa imbued her voice with all the confident common sense she could muster. "Whatever it is, it's not evil." With a chuckle, she added, "From the way Crumb talked about it, I was afraid she had some kind of neutron bomb, and now it turns out it was only a crystal ball."

"Only a crystal ball?"

"It's not as if you don't get one of those every day." Spike stopped and refused to go any further; they were at the end of the curving pier. The breeze picked up, teasing her hair off her shoulders. "If by some strange chance it turns out to be magic, I guess you'll deal with it when the time comes. After all, if somebody needs a hero, I can't believe there's anyone better suited to the role."

"Thanks a lot. Next thing I know you'll be measuring me for armor." 

Gary offered his elbow as they turned to walk back to shore, and Marissa hooked her hand over the familiar leather sleeve. He walked on the side closest to the lake--he always did that, always sheltered her from the wind off the water, or the traffic if they were walking down city sidewalks. He probably didn't even realize what he was doing. He just did it because he was Gary Hobson, Chivalry's Final Frontier. Grinning at the thought of Gary clanking around in a tin suit, she told him, "You might look good in armor. Of course, I hear it could get pretty hot in those on summer days, and it wouldn't do to be all sweaty by the time you got to the damsel in distress."

"Marissa?" Gary pulled his arm free of her hand. Their footsteps slowed, then stopped together. "Marissa, this thing is--it's changing. I think something's happening." The tone of his voice, wonder and consternation mixed with a healthy dose of fear, told her he wasn't joking.

"You mean like it did in the office?" 

"Yeah. Here, feel it." He held the globe out to her, placing it within her reach but not relinquishing it. 

"It's warm." She ran her hands over the smooth glassy surface. "Warmer than it should be, just from your hand, and it's tingling." A faint vibration trilled through the metal and glass to her searching fingers.

"Yeah." Gary's voice was cautious, wary. "And inside it, Marissa, there are--there are colors."

She paused and swallowed hard, suddenly chilled to the bone. "Are you sure you didn't just trigger a switch somewhere?"

"Believe me, this thing doesn't have any switches. And it's glowing." He stepped away from her; she felt the breeze pick up between them. "Uh, Marissa, I don't know what's going on, but I think--"

He never finished. There was a loud splash, and then nothing. For a moment she froze, and then Spike barked his most urgent alert. Marissa took a step toward the spot where Gary had stood, then another, while her guide dog tried to keep her away from the edge of the dock. 

"Oh no--Gary? Gary, are you there? Hush, Spike!" The dog stopped barking, but that didn't change the fact that there was nothing else to hear. No struggle, no splashing, nothing.

"Answer me. This isn't funny!" Marissa got down on her knees and felt for the edge of the pier; she held out her hand, leaning forward as far as she dared. "Take my hand, Gary! We'll get you out, come on, please, just take my hand..."

The only response was the lapping of little waves against the pier.

* * *

"Take my hand!"

Gary could hear Marissa, her voice warped by the water between them, but he couldn't answer her. 

Air. He needed air. His lungs were screaming, points of light were bursting behind his eyes, and he knew that if he didn't open his mouth soon, he would explode.

This, he knew with what little was left of his rational mind, was his main problem. The rocks were secondary, even though they were all around him, slamming into him. 

No, he was slamming into them, tumbling through the darkness, the water, that dragged him forward but not up.

Not that he was even sure where up was anymore.

Hip, knee, rib--the stones seemed intent on colliding with every bone in his body. His shoulder smashed into a sharp outcropping rock, the pain so sharp that he opened his mouth in an involuntary gasp. Water rushed in, but the force of the collision rebounded him off the rock and above the surface. Coughing, gasping, Gary managed to suck in one quick breath before the rushing torrent carried him over an edge, and he fell into a dizzying black nothingness.

  


* * *

  


_first the thunder  
satisfied, if the past it will not lie  
then the storm  
torn asunder  
the future you and i get blown away  
in the storm  
in a lifetime_  
~ Ciaran Brennan

  


"Gary? Come back. Take my hand!" Marissa's voice rose above the traffic and gulls and wind; rough cement dug into her knees through her thin wool pants. Why wouldn't he answer? Frantic barking sounded in her ear in counterpoint to her own calls. "Where is he, Spike?" 

Someone heard them. Heavy footsteps pounded toward her; hands helped her to stand. 

Not Gary's footsteps. Not Gary's hands. 

"What happened, lady, are you all right?"

"He fell in. My friend is down there in the lake. Do you see him?" Stay calm, instructed a monotone voice in her head. Don't panic, get help. Gary had to be there. He wouldn't just disappear.

"Someone fell in? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! He was here, right here, and we were talking, and then there was a splash, and--and nothing. Please, he's already been in there a couple of minutes; why can't I hear him?" 

More someones made their way onto the pier, jostling for position, passing the story on to newcomers. One man used a cell phone to call 911; another started shouting at the water, as if Marissa hadn't done that already, as if she hadn't done everything she could, and it still wasn't enough.

"Can your friend swim?" asked a female voice from behind her.

"Yes--I mean, he knows how, but he's not--I didn't hear him come back up. Don't you see anything?" She thrust her hand out toward the lake, and bumped someone on the shoulder. 

"Hey, lady, chill, okay? We'll find this guy. What's he look like?"

"Duh, Adam!" There was a mumbled apology, and more shuffling of feet, but none of it really registered with Marissa.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to hold herself in. No need to worry about holding onto Spike; his concern and the press of people kept him glued to her side. "His name's Gary. He's down there. Find him." There had to be some way she could help him. It had all happened so quickly. What had he said just before that splash, about the crystal ball and what it was doing? It was too hard to remember, with all this activity buffeting her, with fear blossoming in her chest. Even if Gary had been there, she wouldn't have been able to hear him over the voices and the gulls and her heart pounding all the way up in her ears. 

"I'm going in," said the first man who'd stopped. There was a thud of something landing near her feet--shoes, she decided when she nudged them with her toe--then another splash, and then a few seconds of brief, breathless silence while everyone waited. 

"There's no one down here, not that I can see." A collective sigh escaped from the crowd--when had it become a crowd?--around Marissa. "The w-w-water's pretty deep," he chattered. 

"He was right here," Marissa insisted, panic leaking through the cracks in her voice. "Can't you find him? Isn't there anything at all?"

The woman patted Marissa's shoulder. "It'll be okay, hon." 

But would it? How long could Gary hold his breath? How long before he'd have to open his mouth and let the water rush in and-- 

Marissa swallowed hard and reached for Spike. One hand atop his head, she could feel the vibration of his whining, though she couldn't hear it through the maelstrom of noise and movement that surrounded them. "Gary, please..." Biting her lip, she offered up a quick, wordless prayer, a frantic entreaty that was broken by the wail of sirens, closing in fast.

The noise and her fear nearly pushed her over the edge. For a moment, she could feel herself disconnecting from the scene, searching for a numb cocoon to enfold her, to keep her safe from the frenzy. But she couldn't retreat, not if Gary--he needed--she needed help, needed a friend, before this nightmare spiraled completely out of control. 

"Cell phone." The words burst out of her mouth before they were fully formed in her mind. 

"What's that?" asked the woman at her side, yelling over the banshee sirens.

"A cell phone--please, I need to use a phone!" Midway through Marissa's shouted plea, the sirens cut off. Her desperation left everyone around her silent for a split second, and then three different people tried to press phones into her hand at once.

She called Crumb. It wasn't as if he could help search. He couldn't even swim, but she needed someone there, someone she trusted to be her eyes and advocate, someone who knew Gary and maybe even cared about him a little.

Someone she could trust to listen to, if not believe, the whole story.

He wasn't home. She left a message, befuddled by the cacophony of questions flying around her as the rescue teams pounded onto the pier. 

"What's going on? Who're we looking for, here?"

"Who was here when it happened?"

"How long ago did he go in?"

She told them what she could, what little there was to tell, and was led farther down the pier--farther away from Gary--to wait while they did their jobs. She knew they needed the space, but she needed to know what was going on, she needed to understand how this could have happened.

She needed her friend, she thought, and swallowed back a sob of pure, terrified confusion. Every passing moment deepened her fear for Gary--Gary, who was sure-footed and a strong swimmer; Gary, who prevented everyone else's disasters; Gary, who would never, despite what one or two of those who stopped out of curiosity suggested, play a dirty trick like this on a friend.

Gary, who was nowhere to be found.

  


* * *

  


_If you came this way,  
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,  
At any time or season,  
It would always be the same: you would have to put off  
Sense and notion...  
Here, in the intersection of this timeless moment._  
~T. S. Eliot

  


Sharp blows pounded his back. "Breathe, will you?" The voice, thickly coated with some kind of British accent, sounded familiar, but Gary couldn't focus enough to figure out why. All his attention was devoted to moving air in and out of his lungs and giving silent thanks that it was air, and not water. Darkness still filled his vision. Sitting up, he draped his arms over his knees, hanging his head. Inhale, exhale. That was how it worked, right? Simple, involuntary.

It shouldn't hurt so much. 

"You should take more care when choosing a spot to bathe. You tangled up my lines and now--breathe," the voice reminded him.

Trying to inhale set Gary on a fit of coughing which didn't remove the tang of lake water from his mouth. The blackness cleared slowly, leaving him aware of painful bruises, wet clothes clinging to his skin in cold air, and, thank goodness, solid ground underneath. He lifted his head, blinking into bright sunlight; the rays glinting off the water and playing among the shade of the trees were enough to nearly blind him.

Shade? Gary looked straight up, blinking into a green-leafed canopy. 

There were no trees along the pier. He must have come out of the lake somewhere else.

Wait a minute. Green leaves? It was October, wasn't it? Gary shook wet hair out of his eyes. If he was sitting under trees, he should have seen the brilliant fall colors of the maples and oaks of Lincoln Park. And yet, above him the oak leaves were new, mixed in with the bright yellow-green foliage of a droopy willow tree. 

"Egads, have I rescued a mute? Are you deaf?"

Still puzzled by the scenery, Gary focused on the voice. Hard not to do, when the face that belonged to it pushed its way into his line of vision. More lake water ran out of his mouth as he gaped in shock. What the hell was--

"CAN YOU HEAR ME?" 

Gary jumped from his sitting position, only to bash his head against something far too solid.

"Ah, damn!" he spat as he dropped back to the ground, pushing willow fronds out of his face and clapping both hands to the top of his head.

"Have a care, or you will undo my sole good deed for this day," cautioned the man who squatted on the ground beside him, brows raised over twinkling blue eyes. 

Gary wanted the world to stop spinning. He wanted to know who had placed a thick tree branch directly above his head. He wanted to know whether he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. 

Most of all, he wanted something to make sense, and soon. 

"Ch-Chuck?"

The man before him certainly looked and sounded like Chuck. Sort of. Kind of. Longer hair, but then Gary hadn't seen Chuck in a couple of months. A mustache, and some kind of goatee. That he could deal with. The accent was strange, though knowing Chuck, it could have been an affectation. The clothes were another matter altogether. Gritting his teeth to push away his second wood-induced headache of the day, Gary spat out, "Chuck, what the hell did they do to you out in Hollywood?"

The man--Chuck, it had to be Chuck, that was Chuck's face under the extra hair, supported by Chuck's scrawny neck--smiled at him, but looked perplexed. "The Holly Wood? I do not believe I have heard of that. Is it in Wales, perhaps? They do tend to go on about their holly there." 

Gary frowned. There was something funny about the way the way Chuck's words were sounding in his head--but maybe he'd just got water in his ears or something. 

"And I am not certain what a 'Chuck' is," he went on, "but I am fairly certain that I am not one. Perhaps--oh, there goes my line." He hurried over to the water's edge and began fussing with a tangle of twine and hooks, tugging against whatever was at the other end of it.

Still too dumbfounded to do more than stare, Gary finally took a good look around him. The sun was warm, already starting to dry his clothes and hair. He wasn't on North Avenue Beach. The lake was nowhere in sight. Instead, he was sitting on a gravelly riverbank a few yards wide. The roar to his right came not from traffic or boats, but from a steep waterfall. There was not a car, not a road, not a speck of cement or a skyscraper in sight.

There were, however, plenty of trees. Trees climbed the hill that rose sharply on the other side of the river; trees lined the bank that Gary sat on for as far to his left as he could see; tree roots formed rough steps in the steep path that led up the side of the waterfall. They were huge, their trunks bigger around than Gary could have reached with both arms, their topmost branches seriously headed for the sky. The worrisome thing was that many were trees that Gary, who'd been a Boy Scout for more years than Patrick had been in college, had never seen before. It was almost as if he wasn't in Chicago at all, but he'd heard Marissa, hadn't he? Back when he first fell in, before he'd run into all those rocks.

"Chuck?" Scooting out from under the willow before he rose, Gary climbed awkwardly to his feet, and instantly regretted the movement. Twinges and aches became knives in his ribs and shoulder, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "Where'd Marissa go? Where are we?"

Giving up his struggle with the lines, Chuck turned to Gary and raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps a better question is, who are we? I know who I am, of course, but who are you? And what were you doing getting caught in my fishing lines?"

"F--fishing? You were fishing? Why are you talking like that? Why are you dressed like that?" Somehow, Gary had never expected to see his best friend in--well, that certainly wasn't an Armani suit. Red beret, floppy linen shirt, leather vest, loose brown drawstring pants that stopped at the knees and..."Are those--are those _tights_?"

"They may have a few holes, but they are certainly more seemly than your apparel." Arms folded across his chest, Chuck considered Gary with frank curiosity--and a bit of eager greed. "Are you a spirit? Perhaps a genie, who will grant me three wishes?"

"I'm not--" Shivering in the breeze that cut through his wet clothes, Gary peered at--at the man who looked too much like Chuck to be anyone else. "Don't you remember? It's me, Gary, your best friend."

"Gary? What kind of a name is that? And believe me sir, were you my best friend, I think I would recognize you, even if you did come tumbling down the waterfall." He nodded at the drop, behind Gary's back now, but all Gary's attention was focused on the man before him, on figuring out what the hell was going on.

"You're not Chuck?"

"I told you, I do not know what a Chuck is."

Then who--oh, wait a minute...not again...

"Morris? Morris Best?" Not that Gary wanted to relive the Chicago Fire, but at least he'd know where this was headed.

"My name, good sir," the man, said, shaking his head, "is Fergus. Fergus MacEwan, at your service." He bowed, sweeping his red felt hat with a flourish. A couple of feathers were attached to the back. Oh, brother.

"I'm supposed to call you Fergus? What kind of a name is that?"

"Because it is my name, it is what most people call me." Chuck--no, Fergus--stood on tiptoe and peered at the top of Gary's head, parting the damp locks of hair with one hand. "How hard did you bump your pate?"

Gary brushed the man's hand away. "Maybe not hard enough. Can't you tell me what's going on?"

"My question exactly," said another almost-familiar voice behind him. Gary stiffened. It was too much to hope.

"Fergus MacEwan, what are you doing with my dragon slayer?"

Bracing himself for another shock, Gary pivoted on his heel, then took a step backward. "Marissa?"

It was Marissa--and it wasn't. The woman before him had Marissa's face and her hair, though it was longer than it had been a few minutes ago, falling in tight waves to her elbows. She wore a dark cloak fastened with an elaborate silver brooch, and under that, a dark green dress that laced up the front, its sleeves dripping wet. And though she cocked her head to one side the same way Marissa sometimes did, she was looking right at Gary.

Looking at him. Seeing him.

Not Marissa. Just like Eleanor hadn't been Marissa and Morris hadn't been Chuck. The disappointment was enough to sink Gary's heart to the soles of his feet. 

Not Chuck. Not Marissa. Not home. 

Not even close.

  


* * *

  


_And there on the deck of the rotting, leaking ark  
The little family gathered in the rain and cold and darkness  
One little family, shivering in the gloom  
Waiting for words of doom,  
Waiting for words of doom._  
~Stephen Schwartz

  


The message on his machine was so short and disjointed that Crumb had to replay it, not just to get the information straight, but to make sure that the speaker really was the normally calm, self-assured Marissa Clark. She certainly wasn't hysterical, but the quiet urgency in her voice and the fact that she didn't complete her sentences were more alarming than any histrionics would have been. 

Hobson was in trouble, he got that on the first pass. Not much new there, but when Crumb listened again and figured out what kind of trouble, he was out the door as fast as his feet would carry him. He climbed back into his still-warm car, cursing as he checked his watch against the time of the message. 

Fifteen minutes ago. If she'd called him shortly after it had happened, there was still hope. Though by the time he got to the North Avenue Beach, ten minutes away...clenching his jaw, he pushed the accelerator to the Buick's floor. 

Make that five minutes. 

In all his time with the force, the speed at which a water rescue could be mobilized had never failed to amaze Crumb. He knew what to expect, and a quick inventory of the melee as he parked and hurried to the pier told him exactly what stage the operation had entered. They were all there: police cruisers parked at random on the beach; search and rescue divers on the pier and in their boats; curious onlookers; bloodthirsty reporters; the EMTs waiting near the ambulance. That meant they hadn't found Hobson yet. Damn. 

Marissa stood in the midst of it all, a rock in a river of people and activity. Positioned where the park path turned onto the curving pier, planted in the sand on the civilian side of the yellow tape, she wasn't speaking to anyone, just standing with her face toward the water, her dog at her side. Even her outfit, a pale grey sweater and black slacks, was a muted contrast to the riot of colors in the trees and the clothing of the people around her.

Pushing through a knot of teenagers on roller blades who'd stopped to check out the action, Crumb hesitated a few feet behind Marissa, reading the tension in the set of her shoulders and trying to decide what to say. Spike must have sniffed him out; the dog's head turned and his tail started thumping when he spotted Crumb. Marissa jumped. "What is it, Spike?"

"Hey there." Crumb moved closer, stepping around the dog to get a good look at Marissa's face, but first he shot a scowl at the eavesdropping teenagers. They beat it back to the cement path with their skates and spiked hair. "It's me. I was at the store when you called. What's going on?"

"They can't find him." Her eyes were even more unfocused than usual, and her lower lip quivered. "I don't know what happened. One minute we were walking along, we were just talking, and then--" She shook her head, clutching Spike's harness so tightly Crumb was afraid she'd snap it. "And then he wasn't there, and there was a splash, and that--that was it. I called him and I tried to reach him, to get help, but there was nothing." Swallowing hard, she finished, "I don't understand. They won't tell me anything. I know they have to--to--but it's Gary, and--"

Another diver splashed off the pier. 

"What was that?" Her voice turned sharp, scared to death. Crumb watched small orange buoys appear in the water as the searchers covered the lake in a grid pattern, radiating outward from the dock. He didn't know what to say to allay her fears, so he took refuge in SOP.

"That's the divers. They're still looking. They're doing the best they can. These are the experts, and you gotta let them do their jobs." It was a rote speech, one he'd given so many times it had lost its meaning, and she knew it. Turning fractionally away from him as she nodded, Marissa set her jaw and squared her shoulders, the picture of desperate determination not to fall apart. Crumb's first instinct was to put an arm around her shoulders, to lend what strength he could, but she seemed too brittle for that. She wouldn't lean. She would shatter.

"They told me to stay out of the way. Politely, of course, but how much longer will they search?" she whispered. "Crumb, is there any hope that he's still--that he's not gone?"

Crumb stared at the activity on the dock. He knew the drill. Stay back, shut up, keep out of the way, let the experts do their job. Don't ask questions, don't interfere. 

Bullshit, he decided, looking from the cops and divers mingling on the pier to the woman at his side. He was an expert, too. That's why she'd called him. And those were tears in her eyes.

"I'll see what I can find out," he promised. "I'll be right back." He spoke deliberately and waited for some kind of acknowledgment before he would step away.

"Crumb? Gary had--" She bit her lip, shivering. 

"What?" Frowning, he hesitated, but she changed her mind, shook her head.

"No. No, go, see if they'll tell you anything. It can wait."

"You sure?" 

"Yes." She waved him off, her hand coming to rest on Spike's head. The dog nuzzled it affectionately, protectively, almost as if he knew what was going on, and Marissa shivered again. 

Crumb took a step back and shucked out of his windbreaker, then draped it over her shoulders with a little pat. "I'll be right back," he promised. Marissa nodded, but her attention was focused beyond him, on the pier and the lake. He couldn't tell if she felt the coat or not. 

None of the rescue team noticed him step over the cautionary tape, so intent were they on their mission. Good. That was the way it should be. Striding purposefully through the thicket of grim faces that lined the pier, Crumb cleared his throat and tapped the nearest uniformed shoulder before he realized that the officer was talking on a cell phone.

"Yeah, we're still working this call at the North Shore and--hold on." Flinging off Crumb's tap with an elaborate shrug, the woman whirled, her long black braid nearly catching him in the face as it whipped around. "What the he--?" She broke off, eyes widening. "Zeke?"

"Hey, Nick--Sergeant," Crumb corrected himself with a wan smile as she told whomever was on the other line that she'd call him back. "Congratulations on the promotion." 

"Thanks," she said curtly, blinking and pocketing her cell phone. "What the hell are you doing here?" That was Nicoletta Piovani, always had been, even when she'd been a beat cop. Right down to business; cut the formalities and get on with what had to be done. So he did.

"I know the guy you're looking for."

"Gary Hobson? Aw, crap, Zeke." Her shoulders lowered a fraction as her expression softened, and she brushed short, curly bangs off her forehead. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too." Crumb looked out over the water, at the buoys bobbing in response to the system of tugs the divers used to communicate underwater. "What happened? How long has he been in there?"

"He fell off the pier--" She interrupted herself to address a patrol officer who was pointing at the EMTs and their ambulance on the shore, answering his question before he could voice it. "They're on standby for another twenty minutes. I don't care if we have to work around 'em. I want them close." Nick shook her head once as the junior officer went to relay her orders. "Sorry, Crumb." Her gaze flickered down to her watch, then back up at him. "It's been about twenty-five, thirty minutes since we got the call. Apparently he was just walking along the pier and fell in. Never resurfaced. Probably hit his head or got caught on something down there. That would be my guess, anyway."

Crumb ignored the way his stomach tightened at that. "Divers haven't found anything yet?"

She blew out a breath. "Not a goddamn thing." 

"You look for blood on the side of the pier, piece of torn clothing, stuff like that?"

"I know my job, Crumb." Both hands on her hips, the sergeant frowned out at the water. "There's a steep drop-off here, and you know how weird these things can get, down there with the currents and the weeds and the trash. We're doing the best we can on what little information we've got. I mean, the only real witness isn't much of a help." Piovani waved toward the shore, toward Marissa, but Crumb held up a hand before she could go any further.

"That's why I'm here, Nick. She's a friend of mine. Look, I think if you ask the right questions, she can tell you more than you think. You just gotta--aw, shit." Following Nick's squint to the end of the pier, Crumb saw a group of three reporters and what looked like, from this distance anyway, a television camera attached to a pair of jeans, all closing in on Marissa like a pack of damn hyenas. He should have known better. 

"Hey, I didn't mean offense." Out of the corner of his eye, Crumb saw Piovani shake her head as he stepped around her to get back to the shore. "Go get 'er, Galahad," she muttered with a grin.

"Slow news day, fellas?" Crumb elbowed his way through the little group, realizing as he got past the camera man that the only reason they weren't right up in Marissa's face was the large, muscular, growling bundle of fur and teeth that stood in their way. Spike's mistress didn't look any less ferocious than he did; she stood her ground, one fist clenching Crumb's coat closed just below her neck while the other gripped the dog's harness.

"I told you, there's nothing more to the story! Why don't you just back off?"

Now that was more like the Marissa Clark he knew. "You heard the lady, clear out," Crumb insisted, turning on the pack with the fiercest expression he could muster. Spike relaxed his guard as the vultures, tape recorders and Palm Pilots in hand, took a couple steps away. Crumb turned his back on them. He didn't know which threat they were responding to, and he didn't care.

"Crumb?" Marissa's voice dropped to a near whisper, but she'd recovered a good deal of her composure. At least those morons had been good for something.

"Right here."

"Have they found anything?"

"Not yet, but they're still looking."

"It's been so long." Releasing its grip on the coat, her hand dropped to her side, but Crumb reached over and took it, determined, this time, to make sure she knew she was not alone, not by a long shot.

"C'mon," he said, "I know the sergeant in charge, and we're gonna go see if we can help her out. There's gotta be something you can tell them that they forgot to ask about."

A look he couldn't quite interpret crossed her face, and he started to ask what it meant, but the reporters were still too close. The TV camera with legs was inching nearer and nearer. "Let's get away from these yahoos." 

At Marissa's silent nod, he guided her onto the pier, holding up the tape so that they could pass under it. It took a little maneuvering to get past the smaller groups that had dispersed along the dock, but Marissa and Spike followed his lead easily until they stopped, their path blocked by a diver who was changing his oxygen tank. They caught the tail end of his conversation with one of the search coordinators. 

"How much longer?"

"Hour's almost up. Gotta change over from rescue to recovery operations soon."

"Too bad, man." 

Crumb stole a glance at Marissa, hoping against hope that she hadn't understood. But she was too smart not to, too smart by half. Her face crumpled, and he knew she'd figured it out. There wasn't a whole lot he could say. With a sigh, he started forward, but it took a couple seconds before Marissa--or Spike for that matter--would follow. Her hand tightened around Crumb's in a vise-like grip.

"It isn't fair," she whispered fiercely. 

Crumb sighed. "It never is."

  


* * *

  


_Una had set out to look for a champion who would face  
the terrible dragon. She had traveled a long, long way before  
she found the Red Cross Knight....she had to find him and  
guide him back to the path._  
~Margaret Hodges, Saint George and the Dragon

  


"Fishing again, were you Fergus?" Although her tone was light, the young woman's jaw was clenched, and there was a tightness around her eyes that indicated exhaustion. Please, Gary thought, please be Marissa, somehow. As if she had read his mind, she whirled on Gary. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, I--do you know me?"

"Of course I do." Her tone was forced, Gary thought, and she didn't look nearly as sure as she sounded. Their gazes locked for an endless moment, and what he saw in hers--wonder, but also fear--sent shivers up and down his spine. "You," she began, then swallowed. "You are--"

The strange little man who should have been Chuck stepped between them, waving his red hat toward the waterfall. "He just appeared in the river; tumbled right over the fall and into my lines! I promise you, m'lady, I did not do anything to him." He patted his hat back onto his head, feather bobbing madly, and shrugged. "If he truly is yours, you are more than welcome to him. I cannot understand half of what he says, and the half I do understand is all questions."

Well, that settled it, Gary decided. Chuck would never call Marissa anything as deferential as "my lady." Not that she didn't look every inch the part, sweeping past the hapless fisherman to stand before Gary. 

"Fergus, there are great matters afoot," she informed him, tossing the words over her shoulder, "and if you have interfered in any way, if you have brought any harm to my dragon slayer--"

"Your what?" Fergus spurted out a laugh.

"--I promise you, I will see to it that your pack disappears into the nearest bog, and that you vanish right along with it." Her voice, like the man's, sounded strange in some way Gary couldn't quite define. It was more than just the accent, which was somewhere between British and brogue, but he couldn't pin down what he was hearing, exactly. It was all too much to work out.

"Now, now, wait a minute," Gary interjected, squirming under her gaze. It was bad enough that Marissa could read him without seeing him, but to have her, or her doppelganger, staring at him so intensely was discomfiting, to say the least. "He's telling the truth, I think."

"You think?" she prompted. 

"Yeah." Gary grimaced and tried to shuck off his coat. The sleeves were twisted around his arms, and he could barely move in the darn thing. But then, maybe that wasn't his jacket's fault. Moving his shoulder hurt, moving his arms hurt, hell, even breathing wasn't comfortable. Must have bruised a couple of ribs, and that shoulder. Much as he hated to admit it, he might have to see a doctor on this one. 

"Let me help you." The woman moved behind him, standing on tiptoe to help him pull off the jacket. Frowning, she turned the dripping bomber over in her hands, examining the snaps and zipper, but she set it on the bank without comment. "What was that you said about the truth?" she said instead when she looked up again, one eyebrow arched. "And Fergus? Two words one would never normally associate."

"Well, he did pull me out of the river. I was unconscious at the time." Gary glanced at Chuck-not-Chuck, who was nodding encouragement. "But when I came to, he was here, telling me to breathe, and I think he just wanted to help."

"Help?" She snorted indelicately, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with an impatient toss of her head. "Surely you jest."

Indignant, Fergus glared right back at her. "I did more than most would, to help such a strange...stranger. Where did he come from?"

She had no answer; Gary saw it in the uncertainty that flashed through her eyes, and heard it in the split-second silence in which the roar of water over the fall seemed to grow louder. And birds--there were birds, singing like crazy in all the trees around them. Then she set her jaw and turned back to her sparring partner. "Fergus, you could have ruined everything!" She nodded at Gary, one hand out in a sweeping gesture. "Just look at him! Dripping wet and half-frozen. This won't do at all." 

"I am looking at him," Fergus countered. He walked around the pair in a slow circle and plucked tentative fingers at Gary's sweater. Gary slapped his hand away. "'Tis difficult to believe what I see. I have never seen clothing like this, not even on the continent. The only things that might pass for normal are his boots, and even those are more than passing strange."

"What's wrong with my boots?" Gary folded his arms tightly across his chest. The sleeves of his turtleneck sweater flopped over his hands, hopelessly distorted by the soaking they'd received. He ought to write a letter to Lands End about their so-called water repellent wool.

"There is nothing wrong with your boots. Fergus is not accustomed to seeing someone in old-fashioned clothes." Gary's jaw dropped at that, coming from a woman in a get-up straight out of a Robin Hood movie. She unfastened the pin that held her cloak closed, making some kind of clucking noise deep in her throat as she looked Gary up and down. "You could have saved yourself part of the soaking and most of the bruises you will have if you had taken my hand and let me pull you out when you first appeared in the water. Where is your sword? Pray tell, did you lose it in the river?"

Confused, Gary looked toward the rushing water and wondered why he'd need a weapon. "I don't have a sword."

"Never mind. We will find you one if it is needed, though I rather doubt it will be. It's not as if we have an actual dragon here."

Reeling from the sheer volume of context clues, Gary had no answer except a silent sigh of relief that he wasn't about to be devoured or roasted like a marshmallow. The man who'd fished him out of the river, however, only became more agitated.

"Now it is you who jest," he told the woman. "A dragon slayer? Him? Even if dragons had ever existed, except in song and story, he hardly looks the part of the knight triumphant. I would wager he could not slay his way out of a chicken coop." He stood back, hands on hips. 

"You are a fine one to talk!"

Fergus cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. "At least he will not be singed, as he is dripping like a leaking roof. If he is a legendary hero, then I am the Archbishop of Canterbury." 

Gary punctuated Fergus's insult with a sneeze and sniffle, wiping his nose with the back of his hand when he realized there wasn't any part of him dry enough to function as a makeshift handkerchief. 

"However, if you are interested," Fergus added in a confidential undertone to Gary, "I have a wonderful dagger back in my pack." He pointed at an oversized burlap bag that sat atop the riverbank. "Jeweled. Very old. Very nice. 'Tis yours for...oh, I like you. Only three pieces of silver."

"Which means it is worth two copper coins." The woman shook her head as she pulled a square of white cloth out of a pouch that hung from her braided leather belt and handed it to the still-sniffling Gary. Using the rough cloth was kind of like blowing his nose with a dish towel, but it was better than nothing. 

"Fergus," Morgelyn continued in her exasperated tone, "had you been a dragon slayer in days of old, entire villages would have been set to ruin while you devised a scheme to charge for water to put out the flames." With an impatient flick, she pulled off her cape. "The poor man is soaked through and freezing to death, and you--you are calculating how much to charge him for whatever rags are lining the bottom of your pack!" 

Fergus opened his mouth to protest, but clamped it shut at the glare she flashed in his direction. Turning to Gary, the woman tossed the cloak over his shoulders, then stepped back to survey her work, nodding briefly as she rubbed her wet arms. "That should warm you until we get back to the cottage. We can find you something dry to wear there. I am sure Fergus will invite himself for a meal, whether or not he is welcome." With a defiant toss of her head, she strode back up the river bank and into the woods that lay beyond, following a well-worn trail.

"What--who--?" Gary stared after her, dumbfounded, while Fergus smirked. 

"She," he told Gary, gathering lengths of twine into a hopeless tangle, "is Morgelyn. She seems to know more about you than you know yourself. We might as well go with her. If you can bide her tongue, she is not altogether unpleasant company."

"I heard that!" The sharp call came from somewhere deep in the trees, and Fergus went after it, scrambling up the bank.

"I do not know who you are," he called over his shoulder, "but you certainly have her in a snit."

"But I didn't do anything."

"With her, you do not have to do anything to provoke it. But she does make a wonderful stew, as long as you refrain from asking what it contains. Some mysteries are better left to the imagination." Chuckling at the indignant "Fergus!" that snapped back to them and shouldering his pack, he followed the woman into the forest. 

Befuddled, shivering in the cloak that smelled like a hundred campfires, Gary gaped after the pair. None of this made any sense at all. Where was the lake, the pier, that stupid crystal ball thing, the skyline? And where was Marissa, the real one? 

He sighed and ran a hand through his dripping hair. This wasn't the first time he'd come around after a mishap and found himself somewhere--somewhen--other than home. At least the last time he'd been in Chicago. Somehow he had the feeling that this wasn't anywhere near the Windy City, 1998, 1871, or otherwise. The trees were different, the smells were different, everything was different. 

So what was he supposed to do, and what choice did he have but to follow? It only took one long stride to surmount the riverbank, and realized he'd not yet begun to locate every bruise from that tumble down the waterfall. He picked up his jacket and felt inside for the sodden mass that was his paper, but pulled his hand out when he heard a rustling in the underbrush ahead of him.

Morgelyn stepped out of the leafy forest shelter, her brow furrowed. "Is something amiss?" Instead of the crackling irritation of a few moments before, there was genuine concern in her voice. "You mustn't mind Fergus. He is not half the pest he seems." She smiled at him, and for a moment her expression was so like Marissa's that Gary was almost convinced he'd found her, just had some temporary waking dream or something. 

But her hair--that dress--and she was looking at him.

"It's--it's just--" He fumbled for words, then sneezed so hard it hurt his ribs. "You don't even know me, I'm not sure how I got here..." 

"But I do know who you are--oh!" She jumped and lifted her skirt, revealing an sleek blur of orange and ginger that had tried to wind around her legs. "Just another cat."

"Uh, that's, uh--Cat?" Gary blinked down at the animal and found himself pinned by an enigmatic, green-eyed stare.

"You do have cats when you come from?" Morgelyn clicked her tongue and pushed the tabby away with her foot. Cat took off into the forest, disappearing along the same trail Fergus had taken, the trail which Morgelyn now indicated with a tilt of her head. "Do not worry, 'tis gone. Are you coming?"

Gary sighed and wondered when he'd lost complete control of his life. 

"Yeah." He pulled the cloak around him as the breeze knifed through his damp clothes. She turned down the path, and he followed. "Yeah, I guess I am."


	3. Chapter 3

_I should not dare to leave my friend,  
Because--because if he should die  
While I was gone--and I--too late--  
Should reach the heart that wanted me...._

_My heart would wish it broke before--  
Since breaking then--since breaking then--  
Were useless as next morning's sun--  
Where midnight frosts had lain._  
~ Emily Dickinson

Watching as Marissa told Piovani what had happened, Crumb had to admit he was impressed. She was holding it together better than he'd thought she could, strength in the set of her jaw and the determined way she blinked back tears. He was standing next to her, their backs to the lake and the dive site. Nick had positioned herself so that she could see all the activity out on the lake and down the pier with a single sweep of her dark eyes.

"...and we were talking as we walked to the end out there, then we turned back down the pier. We stopped right here, and then there was the splash." Fingers splayed as if to mimic the water pattern, Marissa pushed her hand toward the edge of the pier. She drew in a breath and moved her hand back to rest on Spike's harness. "I didn't hear anything more from Gary. I got down and tried to reach out in his direction, but there wasn't any sound or movement at all. People came, someone called you. You know the rest." She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, but froze at the splash of divers going off a boat. 

"It's okay, just the rescue team," Crumb told her.

"What do you mean, you didn't hear anything? You mean you couldn't hear him swimming or calling out?" Nick had been watching the divers, but now her attention turned back to her witness.

"I mean," Marissa said firmly, "that there was nothing to be heard, nothing at all after that first splash. Spike barked a couple of times, but if Gary had said anything, if he'd been moving around down there, I would have heard him. There was absolutely nothing."

One foot planted to the side, Nick crossed her arms over her chest, cocked her head. "But your dog was barking."

"Only a couple of times, just for a few seconds, and I still could have heard Gary," Marissa insisted. 

"Okay, okay. What were you talking about before he fell in?" 

There was a moment of hesitation, Crumb was sure he'd heard it, then: "Surely that doesn't make any difference."

"It could." Nick was all over that split second pause like a pig after truffles. Taking a step closer to Marissa, she lowered her voice just a fraction, not quite dangerous yet, but definitely interested. "Anything you can tell us to help your friend could make a difference, Ms. Clark."

Crumb had a sinking feeling that there wasn't much of anything going to help Hobson at this point, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say it. Marissa struggled with her word, choosing some, discarding most, before she spoke, leading him to the conclusion he should have reached in the first place. As usual, there was more going on here than anyone was going to tell him, let alone Piovani. But what Marissa said next still managed to surprise Crumb, mostly because it sounded relatively ordinary. 

"Earlier in the day," she told them in a quiet, hesitant voice, "I opened the office door, and I didn't know Gary was behind it. It banged him on the head and--do you--" She blinked into the wind. "Do you think that he might have had some kind of concussion? Could that have made him fall in?"

Nick raised an eyebrow. "How much earlier?"

"An hour or so, maybe an hour and a half?" If possible, Marissa looked even more tense as she waited for a response, drawn into herself like a turtle. 

Nick shrugged, and something like sympathy snuck into her eyes. It could have been something like that, they both knew it. Sucking cool air through his teeth, Crumb came to an instant decision. It didn't matter if it was possible. The last thing he wanted, and the last thing Hobson would want, he was sure, was for Marissa to think it was somehow her fault. "No, no way. Not if he made it all the way out here with no problems." He flicked a glance at Nick, who pulled one corner of her mouth into a knot and gave another mini-shrug, tacit permission for Crumb to go on. "He came here from McGinty's on his own, right?"

Marissa nodded.

"Well, then, it musta been something else. Besides, Hobson's got a head as tough as granite. Woulda taken more than a door to knock him out."

The wan lifting of her features might have passed for a smile, but Marissa wasn't assured yet. She turned to Nick. "Sergeant?"

Nick scuffed one foot against the concrete. "Crumb's right. The chances of it being that bump to his head are slim and none, and right now I'm going with none." Pressing her lips together, Marissa turned toward the lake, listening intently. Crumb flashed Nick a look of gratitude, but her frown deepened. "Of course, that still leaves us in the dark here. Anything else you want to tell us?"

Marissa opened her mouth, but hesitated again, biting her lip. This was the part Crumb knew best, the part where all the spooky stuff that she didn't want to keep from him, but wasn't hers to share, came to the fore. As if it mattered now. Crumb reached over and put one hand on her shoulder. "It's all right," he told her, leaning in close and finishing in a whisper: "Even if it's mumbo-jumbo." 

The little sound she made, half laugh, half choked sob, told him he'd hit the nail on the head. Damn Hobson and his secrets and voodoo...

Nick narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean, mumbo-jumbo?"

"It's just a joke," Crumb began, but Marissa found her voice.

"Gary and I were talking about something he had been given earlier in the day. He had it with him; he called it a crystal ball. I held it for a while. It wasn't very big, a polished sphere or, or globe, with a metal base." Her hands shaped air before them. "Kind of like those snow globe music boxes they sell in souvenir shops, but smaller." 

"Who gave it to him?"

Marissa turned back to him. "That girl, Crumb, the one who came in yesterday. Kelyn Gillespie. She brought it to Gary."

Crumb drew in a deep breath, and didn't let it out until he realized Nick was staring at him, hard. She had both hands on her hips now, pushing back her navy blue CPD jacket, and she looked about as thrilled as a balloon at a porcupine party. He held out his hands helplessly--for cryin' out loud, he wasn't the flake here! Nick raised an eyebrow and dipped her head toward Marissa. Great. She wanted him to be point man. He rolled his eyes. "Why'd she give it to Hobson?"

For a moment, Marissa didn't answer. She fumbled with Crumb's jacket, pulling one side over the other and wrapping her arm around her stomach to keep the coat closed. "I think she liked him, after she saw him stop that accident."

Crumb couldn't look at Nick. He watched Marissa instead, remembering how alarmed they'd both been when the girl had walked in yesterday, and how this morning he'd felt kind of sheepish, like maybe he'd overreacted. "What did she tell Hobson about it? What did it do?"

"Nothing." She lifted her chin the merest fraction of an inch. Here it was: the cosmic cha-cha, the mystic mamba. That shuttered look, so carefully controlled, with just the merest glimpse of "please don't make me say any more or I might tell you everything." The lady was too honest, that was her problem. "It didn't have any switches or knobs, and Gary said it was clear inside."

Nick sighed. "You came all the way out here to talk an empty snow globe?"

"Well, yes and no. We were talking about a lot of things, about how we've been friends for a few years now and--that's all." Marissa went still.

Had her voice caught at the end there because of something that had been said, or something that she'd left out? Or was it just that she was upset over Hobson? 

"That's all." Nick repeated, a hint of dubiousness in her flat voice. Crumb knew why she was doing it. In her place, he would have pushed the same way. But he also knew Marissa, knew how loyal she was to that flake Hobson, and he saw the cracks in her armor starting to show again. It was in the way she chewed her lip, clenched and unclenched her hands around Spike's harness. 

"Nick," he broke in quietly, "if she tells you that's all, that's all."

Pursing her lips, Piovani regarded Crumb thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. Did he have this snow globe with him when you heard him fall?"

"Yes." Marissa flexed her fingers, and Crumb let his hand drop from her shoulder. Nick's skepticism hadn't abated much, but she turned and motioned to one of the dive team leaders. The man stepped closer, and she told them what to look for. 

"I know, it's a needle in a haystack," she said when he objected. "But our victim had it with him. Maybe if you find it, you find him." 

"Okay." Shrugging through his yellow jacket, the man pulled a two-way radio out of his pocket and relayed the information to those who were in the boats. "But we're not staying out here after dark on a recovery, you know that, right? Whatever might be down there, it's too dangerous for the divers." 

He moved off to consult with someone else, and Piovani was waved further down the pier by one of the patrol officers to deal with reporters. She pointed at Marissa and then the shore, mouthing, "Get her out of here," to Crumb before continuing down the dock. 

"Whoever." It was barely a whisper, but Crumb heard it. Marissa had turned so that she was facing the lake, the direction Hobson had ostensibly gone. "Not whatever. Whoever."

Aw, shit. Nick was right. This was not the place for Marissa--for either of them. He didn't want her around when they started packing up. The finality would be too much to bear. If the divers did find anything in the light that was left--and it was fading fast--Crumb knew for sure that he didn't want to witness it. He'd been around scenes like this enough to know that he didn't want to see someone he knew like this. And while Marissa couldn't see it, her other senses worked just fine. They had to get off the pier.

"Hey." He touched her elbow, stiff through the windbreaker. "Let's go inside somewhere. At least come back to my car. It's gettin' cold out here."

She shook her head; shrugged his hand away. "I'm not leaving." 

Spike looked up at Crumb with a little whine. Crumb worked his jaw. He wasn't often the recipient of Marissa's legendary stubbornness, but he'd seen it enough to know how tough this was going to be. "Sweetheart, it's not going to do him any good, you freezin' to death."

"I'm not cold and I'm. Not. Leaving." Might as well have been January. Every word was entrenched in ice.

"Marissa--"

"No." The wind tousled her hair, and she reached up to push it out of her face. Her hand hesitated briefly over her mouth. Through her fingers, she whispered, "We can't just leave him here."

"But it's getting dark."

"That doesn't matter to me."

"It won't be safe here at night. C'mon." He tugged on her arm, but she wouldn't budge.

"No, Crumb. No."

"Marissa." He put both hands on her rigid shoulders, facing her now, hoping that he could find the right words. "I know this is hard. Hell, I wish anything but this had happened. But it did, and there's nothing more you can do right now."

"There has to be something we can do for him. It can't just...not Gary, he's..." Marissa's breath caught. She spun wildly toward the shore. "Crumb?"

"What is it?" Had she heard something?

"Are any of those reporters from the _Sun-Times_?"

That was the last question in the world he'd expected, but before he could recover enough to answer it, or ask what it meant, there was a cry from the water, not twenty-five feet from their position on the dock. 

"We've got it!" 

A flurry of activity ensued, and Crumb pulled Marissa out of the way, up the pier. She hardly noticed, so intent was she on listening to what was happening. Cursing himself for not getting her out of there, cursing her for being so damn stubborn, Crumb fervently hoped that "it" would not turn out to be Hobson. 

It wasn't. In the fading light, Nick approached the pair with something in her hands, still dripping wet, something that flashed metal and glass in the searchlights, something that would have been easily hidden in two nervous hands, or the pocket of a trenchcoat. 

"I think we found your crystal ball," Nick said dryly. "Can you confirm that this is the thing you told us about?" Crumb watched closely, taking Spike's harness so Nick could hand the globe to Marissa. It looked like something from a new age crystal shop, that was for sure. As soon as she had it in her hands, Marissa's shoulders sagged, but whether it was in relief or sorrow, Crumb couldn't tell. 

"This is Gary's." Her voice was careful, steady. "If this was there, then--then shouldn't Gary be--" 

"Not necessarily." One of the divers, still in a wet suit, shook his hair out as he removed his close-fitting cap. "There are always currents." 

"But he was holding it, and it's so much lighter than Gary. Wouldn't a current have taken this, too, if there was one?" 

Crumb wondered if she knew what she was asking. Nick obviously did; she shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. "Wait a minute. Are you sure he fell in?" 

Marissa drew back, set her shoulders. "There was the splash, and then he was gone. I told you that." 

"Gone." Nick exchanged loaded glances with the leader of the dive team, who had been looking rather pointedly at Spike. "What were you talking about just before this happened? Were you arguing?" 

"No. I mean, we had been, a little, I guess, but we weren't--why are you asking me this?" 

It was Crumb who responded. Though he knew the question had to be asked, he was worried that the wrong turn of phrase would cause her to shut down completely. "Marissa." He put one hand on her arm and she turned toward him, her face a mask of confusion and worry. "Is it possible he got upset and threw this in the water, and that was what you heard?" 

"You--you think--no! The splash was too big to have been just this, and Spike was going crazy." 

"Are you sure? Marissa, I need you to remember. To _really_ remember. Is it possible?" Crumb used his gentlest tone, even though Piovani shifted from one foot to the other with a sharp sigh and the dive leader rolled his eyes. 

"But if Gary didn't fall in, where is--" Understanding dawned on her face, then denial--if anything, she looked even more stubborn than before. "No, he wouldn't do that. If he had, he would have come back." Marissa's voice rose a notch. "I know what I heard and what I didn't hear. There was no other sound. He didn't walk away, we weren't in the middle of an argument, and there was no one else here." After a deep breath, she finished, "Crumb, you know Gary. He couldn't do something like that." 

"I also know that the kid tends to go off half-cocked without explanations." 

"No." She swallowed hard, swallowed the possibility. "He wouldn't do this to me. He needs our help. Please, you have to believe me." Her voice tight, she turned the globe over in her hands, tracing the strands of its metal base with trembling fingers. "Maybe it has something to do with this." 

And maybe it was just a dumb, stupid accident, the kind that happened every day to hundreds of people whose friends thought it could never happen to them. Crumb wouldn't say that to Marissa, not now. Not yet. He'd dealt with this enough times to know how long it took for people to let go of false hope. Sometimes it could be dangerous to smash that hope too soon. Heck, he wasn't even ready to face it himself. 

Gary Hobson was a lot of things, but not careless and not inconsiderate. Crumb didn't believe he would have left his friend like this, any more than she did. If it turned out he had, Crumb would make sure, damn sure, that the kid paid for it. 

But he knew in his heart that wasn't going to be the case. 

  


* * *

  


_History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake._  
~James Joyce 

"Nothing broken?" Chuck--no, Fergus, Gary reminded himself--called from his perch on the trestle table that took up nearly a third of the little cottage's length. Behind him a ring of stones encircled the embers of a fire, where he'd laid Gary's clothes to dry. 

"Just bruises." Gary ducked back behind the makeshift curtain that divided the little cottage into two rooms. There was barely space for the two small beds and wooden trunk, let alone Gary. Here, as in the main room, bundles of dried plants were hung from the rafters, and he kept brushing his head against them. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his arms only as far as his shoulders when he pulled on a dry shirt. Made of cream colored, homespun cloth, it was loose fitting and fastened with a couple of ties just below the neckline instead of buttons. It looked a little like something out of Woodstock. Not exactly Gary's style, but it felt a lot more comfortable against his skin than the waterlogged sweater. The pants were a tighter fit, and had obviously been made for someone shorter, but they were heavy brown wool and, again, far more warm and dry than his own jeans. 

"Guess we're really not in Kansas anymore, huh, Toto?" he asked Cat, who was curled on one of the beds, its tail swinging lethargically over the edge as it regarded him with an implacable expression. Gary sighed, grateful that there wasn't a mirror in the place, and that Chuck, the real Chuck, wasn't there to see him in this get-up. He'd never hear the end of it. 

Morgelyn had dug the clothes out of the bottom of one of several trunks that were tucked into the corners of the cottage. She had told him the clothes had been her father's, with a faint, sad smile on her face that had given Gary a shiver, but this was an old grief, long since healed. How he knew that, he wasn't sure. Maybe it was the slightly musty smell of the fabric. 

He took another look around the sleeping space. It wasn't really big enough to be called a room, but still, he kind of wished he could just hide back here with Cat, rather than deal with the two faces out there and the vertigo they induced. He sat down on the empty bed and rested his aching head in his hands for a moment before taking another look around. There wasn't much to see. The other bed was piled with folded brown cloth and more bunches of dried plants, and Gary guessed that there was no one other than Morgelyn living here now. 

Wherever here was. 

It seemed like an isolated place, the forest that they had come through so deep that sunlight barely made it to the ground, even though what Gary had been able to see of the sky above had been bright blue. Around the house the trees had been cleared for a garden, and there was enough light to see by, for now anyway. He had no idea what would happen when night fell. There was no sign of electricity anywhere inside, and there hadn't been a wire or telephone pole in sight on their trek back from the river. Between that and the clothing that his rescuers, and now Gary himself, wore, he was deeply worried about when and where he was, to the point that he was almost afraid to ask. This couldn't be anywhere near Chicago, not from what he knew of history and geography anyway. Things had definitely taken a strange turn since he'd fallen in the lake. 

The lake. Marissa. Shoot, what was going on there? Gary ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, wondering if everything around him was as real as his aches and bruises felt. If he was really just knocked out, like he had been last spring when he'd been pushed back to 1871 and the Chicago Fire, no one back home would even know he'd been gone, right? They'd just think he was unconscious. 

And floating in the lake. At least, he hoped he was floating. 

Better yet, he hoped he was dreaming, still curled up under his comforter in the loft above McGinty's, and that he'd wake up soon. 

The curtain whipped back. Cat jumped off the bed and went to explore the rest of the cottage, while Fergus blinked down at Gary's bare feet, his blue eyes round. 

"Are you dancing?" 

Gary hadn't even been aware of what he was doing. "No, I was just, uh, clicking my heels. It's a long story," he finished when Fergus's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Doesn't work anyway." 

"Be sure he puts the ointment on those bruises!" Morgelyn's voice, even bossier than Marissa's, brought Gary to his feet. Morgelyn was out in the garden; she'd called her commands through the window, which was really only an ivy-draped opening between the timbers that framed the little cottage. There was no glass, just a couple of heavy oak shutters swung back against the wall to let in light and air. Out in the garden that fronted the cottage, he could see Morgelyn digging up plants with a stick, stepping carefully around bunches of flowers and leaves that waved in the light breeze. 

"M'lady's orders." 

Gary turned back to the room, and Fergus held out an earthenware jar about the size of a sugar bowl. The jar contained a brownish-green goo, which gave off an odor that was pungent, if not unpleasant. Gary made a face. 

"A poultice for your bruises. 'Tis naught but herbs and lard," Morgelyn called, as if she could read his mind. 

"Vegetarian Ben-Gay?" Gary muttered. He shook his head, but Fergus pushed the jar toward him again. 

"She will know if you do not put it on," he whispered. "By the smell alone." 

The door flew open. "For pity's sake, Fergus, can you do nothing properly?" 

"'Tis not my fault! He will not take it." 

Morgelyn strode over to the table, dumping an armload of root vegetables onto a wooden platter. She brushed dirt off her hands and took the jar from Fergus, advancing on Gary with wide, innocent eyes. "You can trust me, Gary. I did not bring you all the way here to hurt you." 

There was that word again. Bring. 

"Lift up your shirt." 

He took a step back. "Look, lady, I don't know what the heck that is, but I don't want it." 

Fergus snickered and jumped back up to sit on the sturdy plank table. Her free hand on her hip, Morgelyn blew out an exasperated sigh. "Do you wish to be able to move tomorrow?" 

Gary blinked. Marissa's face, superimposed over Morgelyn's in his mind, gave him a lurching feeling, like that first long drop on a roller coaster. If only to get rid of it, he muttered, "All right, fine." He took the little pot and moved away, over near the window where the slanting light made it easier to see what he was doing. 

Morgelyn stared after him, her mouth falling slightly open before it twisted into a wry smile. "It would be much easier if you let me do it." 

"I'm fine." Gary tried not to wince as he reached under his shirt and touched the gooey mess to a throbbing spot on his left shoulder. Not only did that hurt, but the movement reminded him that he'd banged up his right side as well. Shaking her head, Morgelyn gave up, turning her attention to the vegetables. Gary had to admit that, whatever the stuff was, it didn't feel altogether unpleasant, and the warmth it radiated took the worst of the pain away. Having finished applying it to what bruises he could reach, he set the jar on the window sill and leaned back against the wall, trying to decide which question to ask first. 

The cottage, although small, was neither dirty nor crowded. This larger room was dominated by the table, its long benches, and a pair of low stools near the fire ring. A black kettle sat directly on hot coals, and something that smelled awfully good bubbled inside. There was a flap in the roof propped open above the fire area to let out the smoke. The large window next to the door overlooked the garden, and there were two smaller ones opposite, all with the same thick shutters flung back against the walls. Four timber posts, spaced at equal intervals throughout the cabin, spread into y-beams overhead, where they supported the rafters. The roof was thatched, the walls seemed to be a kind of clay or earthen mixture, covered with something white--plaster, maybe--and the floor was simply hard-packed earth covered with some kind of dried plant, straw or hay or something. Shelves lined the walls, covered with little pots and bottles, oil lamps and candles, and dishes and utensils, most of which were made out of wood or pottery. Strangest of all, there was a set of carvings--marble? No, maybe even ivory, with that yellowing tinge--of elephants, giraffes, lions--about seven different animals that didn't match the place, the accents, or any of the hints and clues Gary had figured out so far. And everywhere, plants hung upside down, some fresh and colorful, some dried to sage green and brown, tied with rough twine to the rafters and beams. 

Morgelyn rinsed off the vegetables with water from a pitcher while she and Fergus debated the price of a small woolen pouch he'd pulled from his pack. Gary tried to pick out what it was about their language that was so strange to him. It sounded like English, until he really concentrated. Then it sounded beyond strange, nothing like other languages he'd heard before, like German or Spanish or Polish. Blinking in surprise, he tried again. Same result. If he just let the words wash over him, he understood what they were saying as easily as if he were watching Monty Python. If he tried to focus in, it got more difficult. It was like looking at an Impressionist painting--made more sense from a distance than it did upon close examination. He wondered if the effect went both ways. 

He didn't even want to think about what could be causing it, so he forced himself to relax, at least a little bit. 

"It isn't worth half that price," Morgelyn said mildly, sniffing at Fergus's pouch and shaking her head. 

"But it came all the way from India, I swear!" 

"Do not swear, Fergus, or you will go to hell for telling lies. Wherever you bought it, it probably came from France. Lemon balm does not grow in India." Morgelyn picked up a knife and began slicing something thick and white that might have been a turnip. 

Even though this place was so strange, even though he had no idea where or when he was, the sense of deja-vu was downright eerie. It was the pair in front of him who created it; the cadence of their lighthearted argument, the undercurrent of respect that flowed through it, the faces Fergus made when Morgelyn shot down his elaborate stories. It was vintage Chuck and Marissa. Gary gulped, realizing for the first time in all the months that Chuck had been gone that he'd missed this. Even the way Morgelyn chopped the vegetables while she talked, looking at Fergus instead of the cutting board, using her fingers to find the spots to cut, her slices firm and sure, was familiar. 

He was so lost in thought that it took him a few moments to realize that the conversation had died and the pair at the table were staring at him. Cat wound itself around and between his legs while Morgelyn, eyebrows raised, asked, "Is something amiss?" 

"Huh?" 

"Is something wrong with the turnips? Why are you staring so?" 

"Well, I--no, it's just--you just look like a friend of mine, is all, I mean, you look just like her. You both do." 

Fergus goggled at the stream of near-nonsense, but Gary, waving his hand to indicate the pair of them, couldn't stop. 

"I mean, you look like two different friends of mine, not the same one--uh, and I, I was wondering--you know, how that could be, and whether this is all some big joke you two are pulling on me and--no, I guess not." He sighed, approaching the table with Cat at his heels. Morgelyn frowned at the animal and seemed about to say something, but, glancing back up at Gary, apparently thought the better of it. She tossed the turnips into the kettle while Gary finally asked, "So what am I doing here?" 

"Other than asking questions and smelling a wee bit pungent?" Fergus asked with another smirk. 

"I mean, how did I get here, wherever here is?" Gary turned to Morgelyn, who straightened from the fire, wiping her hands on her long apron. "And who are you, and why do you keep saying you brought me here, like I'm a sack of groceries or something? When do I get to go home?" 

Her hands still wrapped in the apron, Morgelyn considered him with a tilt of her head. "You truly do not know?" 

"Of course I don't." His voice tightened around the lump of panic that had settled in his throat since he'd realized that he was very far from home. "I was just minding my own business, walking down the pier, talking to yo--to my friend, and the next thing I know I'm here, getting tossed around in a river like a banana in a blender and being told that I'm some kind of dragon slayer or something. I don't even know for sure what a dragon looks like, let alone how to fight one." 

"Banana? Blender?" Fergus screwed up his face as he repeated the words, as though they tasted funny. "Those, I would assume, are the tools of a valiant dragon fighter." He pulled a small knife from his belt and began cleaning his fingernails with the point, all the while whistling an aimless tune. The sidelong glance he shot Morgelyn held a whole history that Gary couldn't read. 

Morgelyn bit her lip. "I do not understand." 

"Neither do I!" 

It seemed as though a dozen different emotions were vying to take hold of her expression at once. In the end, a carefully-controlled mask took the place of all of them. Gary knew it was a mask because he'd seen Marissa do it before, pull calm over herself as if she was pulling down a shade. The answer she gave him was deliberate and brisk; all that betrayed her were the fingers of her left hand, nervously twisting the edge of her apron. 

"Very well. I shall tell you all I know, but let me prepare our meal first. It is a long story, and I do not believe it should be told on an empty stomach." 

Gary finally nodded. Not that it would have made a difference. He was pretty sure that Morgelyn would follow her own course whether he liked it or not. She brushed past him and around the table, where Fergus still sat whistling. He broke off long enough to tell her in a stage whisper, "Whatever your plan may be, 'tis good to know you have the whole matter well in hand." 

"Desist, Fergus. Get off my table." Snapping a few leaves off of one of the green bundles over her head, she added them to the pot. She turned sharply to face Gary again. Her voice was tight, controlled, as if she were simmering just like the concoction in her kettle. "Tell us about these friends of yours." 

Fergus slid off the table, eyes twinkling. "I find it hard to believe that there is another man of my ilk in the world. The ladies must swarm around him like flies on honey." 

"Ha!" Morgelyn's scoff was so exactly like Marissa's that Gary jumped, his eyes widening as they met hers for an instant. She frowned. 

"In all seriousness, what is it about us that you find so familiar?" 

"Almost everything." Gary wasn't sure that he was adequate to the explanation. The last time, with Eleanor, he'd given up when she'd given him an unbearable look, one that said she thought he was completely nuts. He glanced in Cat's direction, but it was no help at all. Too busy pawing at something in the sweet-smelling straw on the floor. "You look just like them, except for the clothes of course, and you argue just like they do." Warming to the topic, he pointed two fingers at Fergus. "You're a smart aleck, just like Chuck, and, and, look at you, you're even bouncing like he does." 

Fergus, who was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looked down at them in surprise. "I am? Who is Smart Alec?" 

"And you, well, your hair's longer." The sweep of Gary's hand took in the dark cascade of Morgelyn's tresses, and she self-consciously tucked a few loose strands over her ear. "But other than that--geez, it's everything. You say the same kinds of things she does, you get under his skin the way Marissa gets under Chuck's. It's so similar I figure I must be dreaming. I know it's not a practical joke because you can see." 

Morgelyn froze, the wooden bowls in her hands halfway to the shelf above the fireplace. "What do you mean?" 

"Marissa, since she was a baby, she was sick and her eyes, they don't..." He trailed off, taking in the looks on their faces. Fergus was all astonishment. Morgelyn, though clearly surprised, also looked solemn, and yet as though she was hiding a smile, and a satisfied smile at that. 

"Your friend is blind?" she asked gently. 

"You are friends with a beggar?" Fergus's question was more incredulous. 

"There is nothing wrong with that." Morgelyn turned on Fergus in what was sure to be the beginning of another spat. "It means that he is a kind person." 

"Whoa, wait, wait." Gary held up a hand. "What makes you think that she's a--a beggar?" He could hardly say the word. The thought of Marissa on the street like that was enough to make him cringe. It was somehow too close to what he'd felt back at the bar, imagining those kids yelling slurs at her. 

The bar, which now seemed light years away. 

He blinked back to the present, or whatever version of it he was currently trapped in, and to a pair of furrowed brows. It was Fergus who answered. "What other station could she possibly have than to beg for alms? That is what the infirm do, is it not?" 

"Infirm?" The word squeaked out of Gary's mouth. He could just see the thundercloud that would pass over Marissa's face at this discussion. "Look, I don't know about this place, but where I come from, that's not how things work. Marissa is more than capable of taking care of herself. She has a job and she would never beg from anybody and she would be offended if anyone told her she didn't have any choice but to be--but to--" His hand waved helplessly in the air. He couldn't say it. 

Morgelyn's smile was no longer teasing or wry, it was genuine. "An enlightened place, indeed. Or maybe just an enlightened friend." She patted his upper arm as she moved to a chest under the large window and pulled out a cream-colored cloth. "Fergus, if you will not help me, the least you can do is get out of the way," she chided as she elbowed him aside. She snapped the cloth out and let it settle onto the table in one smooth motion. 

"Never let it be said that I did not do the least I could do for you." Fergus gave Gary a broad wink. "Come, my strange new friend. We shall seek out adventure and justification for our existence as we wield the ringing ax in a frenzy of prowess!" 

"Fergus!" Morgelyn shook her head ruefully, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the table cloth. "Why can you not say that you are going to chop firewood, as anyone possessed of their senses would?" 

"Ah, but you forget, I am a teller of tales, a wielder of words, a player of the harp, a--" 

Snorting, Morgelyn interrupted the elaborate list to ask, "You can certainly tell a story when it comes to peddling, but to entertain a crowd? When was the last time anyone actually paid you for those services?" 

"How am I to become adept enough at barding to be paid if I never practice?" 

"Is that what it is?" Morgelyn laughed. "Go, see if you can keep our guest entertained while the soup cooks. I'll call when the meal is ready." 

Gary was surprised at the shiver that ran through him when he moved away from the fire. Morgelyn clucked her tongue. "Wait." She disappeared behind the curtain that divided the cottage, and emerged with a brown leather bundle, which she held out to Gary. "This should keep you warm. You are even taller than my father was, but it should fit." 

It was a vest, sort of; a sleeveless tunic that was open in the front and hung down below Gary's waist. He put it on numbly, sure now that there was no way that was really Chuck behind him. Chuck would have collapsed on the floor laughing at the ridiculous picture Gary must have made in the decidedly old-fashioned ensemble. For the moment, he didn't want to think about just how old-fashioned it must be. 

"And these," Morgelyn added, handing him a pair of soft leather--boots? Moccasins? Gary wasn't sure; they didn't have the thick soles he was used to. This, as it turned out, was a good thing, because although they were a bit smaller than his feet, they stretched easily. He could put up with it, if it meant he didn't have to go out into the forest barefoot. 

"Chop the driest wood. The pine, not the oak," she fussed after them as Gary followed Fergus out the door. "And do not leave my ax lying in the dirt when you finish!" 

"I am at thy command!" Fergus retorted, but his eyes twinkled as he turned back and made an overly dramatic bow in her direction. Morgelyn shook her head, but flashed Gary an encouraging smile before she disappeared back into the cottage. 

Cat trailed after them as they rounded the side of the house. When they were safely out of earshot, Gary asked, "Is she always this bossy?" 

"Oh, no," Fergus assured him with a wry, lopsided grin as he picked up the ax that leaned against the side of the house. "Usually she is much worse. I daresay she would have told Queen Maeve herself how to care for her cattle. She must like you, whether or not you are this dragon slayer of hers." 

Whistling again, he led Gary past a stone well and around the back of the clearing in which the cottage stood, down a trail that wound several hundred feet into the woods. There, in another, much smaller clearing, was a haphazard pile of timber and a large, flat tree stump. Gary looked back in the direction they'd come, but the trees were so dense he couldn't even see the cottage roof, nor the smoke rising from it. He thought about asking Fergus what all this was about, but decided that Morgelyn was right: it would be better to wait until he could get the whole story, straight and uninterrupted, with dinner. His stomach rumbled at the thought. Fergus was dragging a pine branch toward the tree stump, but he dropped it when Gary lifted the ax from the stump. 

"No, no, no." He lifted the ax out of Gary's hands. "You, my friend, are in no shape to be swinging a blade. She," he added, nodding in the general direction of the cottage, "would gladly add my head to that stew of hers if I let you hurt yourself any more than you already have." 

"I can help." 

"You may watch." Fergus hauled the thick branch onto the stump and began chopping it into smaller pieces with broad, firm strokes. This guy might look like Chuck, but Gary suspected there was more power in that wiry build than Chuck would ever get working out at the gym. The ringing sound of his efforts sent a flock of birds out of the surrounding trees, calling angrily as they flew off. Cat sat watching them go, craning his neck and lifting one paw as if to call them back. 

"So," Gary asked hesitantly, leaning against the nearest oak, "you said you're a bard?" After all, he wasn't Chuck, so maybe the idea wasn't totally ridiculous. 

What is ridiculous, he reminded himself, is you thinking you're in a time and place where bards actually exist. Not to mention dragon slayers. 

"I have not been properly trained, though the monks taught me when I was young, before I ran away, " Fergus explained as he went on chopping logs. Gary moved to a different tree, one in front of the stump, out of the way of the wood chips Fergus sent out in haphazard flight with each swing of the ax. "I have not had the funds, you see. To be honest, I have, from time to time, but I have never quite managed to be near a true bard in need of an apprentice when I had the money in my purse to make the proper arrangements. Every time I have the money, another opportunity arises." He tossed another pine log onto the growing pile to his left. 

"Opportunity?" 

"A shipment of goods gone astray, in need of a merchant to peddle them. Perhaps a wager on the outcome of a tournament. Opportunities." He leaned on the ax handle, his eyes looking at some point past Gary's shoulder as he reminisced. "Once, I believe it was in London, I wagered the entire contents of my purse against a squire's claim that he could knock an apple off the top shelf of a stall at fifty paces. I lost the bet, but it was worth it to see the look on his face when he realized that my purse contained a single silver piece and some tin scraps." Fergus chuckled to himself as he resumed chopping wood. 

For his part, Gary tried to repress a shudder at the hints that were adding up. The clothes, the house, the accents, talk of knights and London...this was all far, far beyond anything he could have imagined. Or dreamed, for that matter. He tried to take his mind off that disturbing track by concentrating on the forest around him, the bird calls and scampering of small feet much more prominent than he remembered from Boy Scout camping trips along the Wabash. The air was cool but fresh, incredibly fresh, almost like it had been that time he and his dad had spent a week fishing at the Lake of the Woods. But there was a different tang to this air, something he couldn't quite identify. When he listened carefully, he could hear a low murmuring off in the direction of the river, and to the south, he guessed from the position of the rapidly-setting sun. Not quite the rush of cars on the interstate, but at the same frequency. Water, he decided, either the river, or something bigger. 

"Nope, not Kansas at all," he murmured in Cat's general direction. Fergus either didn't hear the comment, or chose to ignore it. 

"How do you earn your keep, stranger? When you are not slaying dragons, that is?" There was an impish twinkle in Fergus's blue eyes. 

"I uh, I run a bar--um, a tavern," he amended at the blank look on the other man's face. 

"And how many dragons frequent your establishment?" 

"None," Gary admitted sheepishly. 

"I fear I find myself as much in need of an explanation as you. I certainly hope Morgelyn has one." Fergus split one more log, then nodded, apparently satisfied with his output. "This should be more than enough to replenish her wood pile. Shall we?" 

They both took armloads of wood and headed back through the trees to the cottage. Fergus protested that Gary shouldn't carry any at all, but he was too weighed down himself to do anything about it. With a last glance up at a scolding squirrel, Cat trotted along at Gary's heels. Gary frowned at it, shifting his burden in a vain attempt to save strain on his injured shoulder. He couldn't remember Cat ever sticking this close for this long, and didn't know if it meant he should be worried about what was to come. 

The fact that he found its presence strangely comforting was perhaps the most disturbing thing of all. 

  


* * *

  


_Oh the leaves they fall they go so far sometimes  
Do I blame the wind or the tree that let it go  
Or do I  
Wave good-bye  
Settling_  
~Tara MacLean 

Discouraged, resigned, the players in the little scene began to pack up equipment, moving to the cars and trucks that were parked near the shore. The last few rays of sunlight streamed between the buildings downtown, across the park, into Crumb's eyes for a brief moment. Then they, too, faded away. 

Piovani approached them again, more subdued than before. "I'm sorry. That's all we can do for today. Tomorrow we'll get a team out to drag the area, bring in the dogs, they can--" She looked from Crumb to Marissa and bit her lip. 

Crumb nodded. The second day was always the best for the dogs. The scent was stronger by then. It was a simple fact. Not the kind of thing that should twist his stomach up in knots. Not the kind of thing that should have left a rock in his throat. 

"As long as you're sure he's not somewhere else?" Nick left the question open, her earlier irritation with the possibility that all of this had been a wild goose chase muted by the defeated mood around them. 

"Nah." The possibility was still there, but Crumb just couldn't bring himself to believe it. He snuck a glance in Marissa's direction. She stood a few feet away from them, facing the lake and clutching that thing, that crystal ball or whatever the hell it was, protectively to her chest with one hand. Spike lay next to her, head on his paws. "Hobson wouldn't do this to her." 

Nick's gaze followed Crumb's. "Okay, Zeke. If you say so." She blinked back at him and nodded. "I know you well enough to believe it." 

Clearing his throat, unsure of how to acknowledge her trust, Crumb twisted his mouth into a weak attempt at a smile. He knew that half the reason she'd wanted to believe it was because she'd wanted the happy ending, just as he had. "You did good work here today, Sergeant." He also knew what it was to go home after a day like this, and was glad Nick had a couple of kids she could hug and play with. Helluva lot better than a bottle, or any of the other so-called solutions he'd seen cops fall into over the years. From the set of her mouth and the exhaustion around her eyes, Crumb knew Nick was going to need a solution tonight, and need it badly. 

He had no idea what his own was going to be. Or Marissa's. 

"Good work," he repeated, awkwardly patting Nick's shoulder. 

"I just wish it could have been good enough." 

"It was." Marissa's voice, barely audible over the engines starting up, surprised them both. She turned in Nick's direction, her hand outstretched. "You did everything that you could, all of you. Thank you for trying." 

Nick stared at the proffered hand for a brief moment, then took it, squeezing tight and covering it with her left as well. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she murmured, nodding once at Crumb before she left them alone on the pier. He didn't want to rush Marissa if she wasn't ready, but it was getting cold fast. His skin was turning to goosebumps under his oxford shirt, and there wasn't any point that he could see in staying. 

"You know," Marissa said, her voice steady through God alone knew what effort as she rubbed the glass ball with one thumb, "I've always hated that word, sorry." 

Crumb cleared his throat, scuffed one foot along the cement. "So I've heard. But Nick, she meant it." 

Marissa nodded. "I know. It isn't her fault, though." 

"It's no one's fault." Crumb waited for a response, but there wasn't one. She pivoted toward the lake again and stood so still that she could have been a statue, abandoned there on the chipped cement walkway. "Are you ready to go?" 

Marissa took a deep breath, and didn't let it out until several seconds had ticked by. She was turning something over in her mind, some decision, or prayer, maybe, Crumb couldn't tell. Maybe she was saying good-bye. 

He glanced back to the shore. They were all gone now, his the only car still on the lakefront. Beyond the park, up on Lake Shore Drive, the evening rush was dying down; soon most of the streets would be deserted. 

"We have to leave, don't we?" Marissa whispered. 

"Yeah, we do. There are things to take care of, people we should call." 

It was like he'd stuck a knife in her gut, the effect was that instantaneous, the expression on her face that pained. One hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling her distress. "Oh, no, Crumb. Bernie and Lois--" 

"Have a right to know." Crumb put an arm around her shoulder, gently guiding her in the direction of the shoreline. "I'll call them. I've done stuff like this before, it was part of my job." He didn't mention that it had been the worst part of his job, nor that it had never become any easier, no matter how many times he'd had to do it. Sometimes he really hated being a cop. Having been a cop. Same difference. 

"And the bar, the people who work there, Patr--oh, God, Chuck--" The words came out of her mouth in a desperate rush, and he knew that they were cracking the dam of her resolve as she realized that the hardest part might be what lay ahead. 

"Hey. Stop." They were at the end of the pier, where he'd found her earlier in the day. Crumb's cop brain registered all the footprints and wheel tracks that marked the sand, the last sign, other than the three of them, of the tragedy that had unfolded here today. He released her shoulder and cupped her elbow, afraid he'd have to hold her up once this really hit her. "Take one thing at a time. Where do you want to go? Back to the bar? Do you want something to eat?" She shook her head. "Okay, then. Here's what I think. I'll make some phone calls, and I can go make sure things get taken care of at the bar, button it down so that you don't have to worry about it for a few days. The rest can all wait until tomorrow. You wanna go home? Is there a friend you can stay with?" 

She flinched again, pulling free of his touch, and he could have kicked himself. Yeah, she'd had a friend like that, and now he was gone. Brilliant move, reminding her like that. He'd driven her right back into her shell. Usually Marissa at least turned her head in the direction of the person she was talking to. Whether it was out of politeness, or because it helped her figure things out better, he didn't know. But now she pointed her nose at Lake Michigan, still waiting. Still hoping. 

The breeze had shifted directions as the sun went down, and it rustled the drying leaves in the trees along the shore, grating on what was left of his nerves. 

"I'd rather just be alone," she finally said. 

He didn't like that thought, but he knew what the set of her jaw meant. This time, he wasn't about to push. "You sure?" 

"Yes. Please." 

It wouldn't be ideal, but maybe the only way she would let down her defenses was if she was by herself. It didn't mean that he couldn't check on her, announced or not. He knew surveillance techniques. 

The wind picked up, and they both shivered. "C'mon, let's go. My car's right over here." 

"Crumb?" She steeled her shoulders and faced him. He thought maybe her lower lip trembled just a bit, but it was too dark to be sure. "Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come." 

Thanks for nothing, Crumb thought to himself. For all his so-called expertise, Hobson was still gone. 

As if she'd read his mind, Marissa continued, "I just wish I could do something to save him, the way he saves everyone else." 

He didn't plan it; didn't think about it. Just reached over the dog and put his arms around her. The glass ball she still clutched pushed into his chest, but it didn't matter now. "No one could have done anything. It was an accident. You hear me? I'm glad you called me, it was the right thing." He kept talking, not saying much of anything, for what felt like forever, but was really only about a minute, until she nodded and pulled back a little. Surprisingly, her eyes were dry. Maybe the dam wasn't as ready to burst as he'd thought. 

"Thank you. I mean it. I'd like to go home now." 

"Sure thing." Crumb took one last look at the lake, and reined in his thoughts before they could stray from the tasks at hand to the reason behind them. People die every day, he reminded himself. No one has a right to a charmed life, and luck always runs out, sooner or later. 

Still, he couldn't help but think, as he let Spike in the backseat, then helped Marissa into the front, that in this case, as in so many others, 'later' would have been easier on all concerned. He had no idea how he'd break this to Fishman, let alone Lois Hobson. 

When had he become responsible for this motley crew? 

  


* * *

  


_In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out  
a tiny subliminal signal. This signal simply communicates an  
exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from  
the place of his birth._  
~ Douglas Adams 

"As beautiful as she was rich, she would have followed me to the ends of the earth. Our passion knew no bounds." Fergus winked broadly across the table at Gary. "But, alas, her husband was a jealous man." 

"Husband?" Morgelyn shot him a sharp, disgusted glance and dished another bowlful of stew from the kettle that hung over the fire. 

"I did not know!" 

"More likely you did not care." Handing the bowl to Fergus, she slipped back onto the bench next to him. 

"What's more, he was twice her age, and a gluttonous, fat, old lout." 

"The husband you did not know about?" 

Fergus said through a mouthful of stew, his shrug unabashed. "Not until he caught us." 

"Oh, Fergus, not again. Which village are you banned from this time?" 

"Town," Fergus declared with a hint of pride and another wink at Gary. "Bayeux, in Normandy." 

"You do not even speak French!" Morgelyn rolled her eyes. 

"We needed no words, I assure you." 

Their conversation washed over Gary, who still couldn't figure out how he could understand them; every now and then a word popped up that he didn't understand at all. He watched the scene with bemused detachment as it played out in the light from the fire and a few thick, white candles clustered at the end of the table. As he and Fergus had returned with the wood, the sun had dropped below the horizon in a fiery blaze of orange and pink. The sunset had helped Gary orient himself, though how much meaning 'west' could hold when he didn't even know what country he was in, he wasn't sure. Cat, on the other hand, seemed right at home, curled up next to the fire and drowsing as if it didn't have a care in the world. Must be rough. 

"He caught us." Fergus leaned forward over the wooden soup bowl, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "We were in the midst of--" 

Morgelyn cleared her throat. 

"--the hay meadow," Fergus finished with a twinkle. "One final kiss, one last look at my love, and I was off like a fox." His arm shot forward, demonstrating, and the contents of his spoon sloshed all over the table. "For two days he followed me, hounded me like a--like a--" 

"Like a hound?" Gary asked over the rim of the tin tankard he'd been given, and Morgelyn choked on her own drink. She'd called it ale, but it didn't taste like any beer Gary had ever had. It was flat and thin, and he had to fight to keep his nose from wrinkling whenever he took a drink to wash down the thick stew and coarse bread. 

"I was in true danger, and you mock me!" Fergus threw his hands in the air. "Every time I meet the right woman, fate intervenes!" 

Where had Gary heard that one before? Except for the accent, Fergus sounded just like Chuck. 

Suddenly, everything around Gary seemed to click over into slow motion. This wasn't Chuck he was talking to. Gary realized that the pair across the table were staring at him, again; he, in turn, was fixated on his spoon, poised midway to his mouth. He'd barely noticed, so hungry had he been at first, that this wasn't metal. It was made of some other material, smooth and off-white. Not ivory, certainly not plastic. 

"What is wrong?" Morgelyn asked gently. 

"What's this spoon made of?" 

She exchanged a glance with Fergus, and the look that passed between them was not unlike the one Gary usually got from Crumb. "It is horn," she explained, as though that should have been patently obvious. "Probably from an ox or cow. Gary, what is it?" 

Slowly, deliberately, Gary set the spoon back into the bowl.Not because of what it was, but because a cold hand was squeezing his stomach, and he couldn't be held responsible for what might happen if he tried to force anything more into it. He was so far from everything he knew, and he finally let that realization slam all the way home. 

Glancing over at the fire, Gary saw that Cat was now watching him through half-closed lids, its head barely lifted above its paws. Great. He had one ally in this strange place, and it had to be the one being in his life that he would never understand. 

Head tilted to one side, Fergus peered across the table at Gary. His tone was only half-teasing. "Why does the spoon disturb you, dragon slayer?" 

Gary looked right into his eyes, no longer attempting to hide his uneasiness. "The spoon isn't the problem." 

"Then what is it?" 

"Lemme ask you something." He waved his hand, encompassing the table and its occupants. The candle flames wavered, sending their shadows flickering over the cottage walls. "Is there anything here that bugs you?" 

"Bugs?" Morgelyn yelped, casting a wild-eyed stare around the room. "My house is clean!" 

"Bother--do you know that word? Bother." Gary drew in a breath. "Does it bother you that you're sitting here eating dinner with a complete stranger? One who doesn't talk like you or dress like you? Or that we seem to be able to understand each other even though I'm pretty sure we're not speaking the same language? Does it bother you, either of you, that I just fell down a waterfall and into your fishing lines out of nowhere, and now here we are, acting like it's old home week or something while we eat soup out of spoons made of _cow horn_ s in the middle of nowhere on the set of some sword and sorcery movie?" 

He paused for air, and Fergus stood, reaching across the table to feel Gary's forehead. "He has no fever." When Gary pushed his hand away, Fergus gave a little shrug and sat down again. Morgelyn set down her own spoon deliberately, moving her bowl of soup off to the side so that she could fold her hands in front of her on the table. 

"You are," she said slowly, as if she were choosing her words with great care, "something of a surprise to me. And you are right, it is time we answered each other's questions." She waited, her expression calm as she regarded Gary in the flickering firelight. 

He curled his hands into fists to control the urge to reach across the table and shake her by the shoulders. Just having her look at him was unnerving enough, and Gary didn't need to be more unnerved than he already was. "Ladies first," he countered peevishly. 

"Very well," she said with a nod, infuriatingly calm. "Your name is Gary--" 

"Are you sure about that?" Fergus cut in. "It is not Gareth, or Gawain, or something we might have heard before?" 

"It's Gary. Gary Hobson." 

Morgelyn tried a placating smile, but it was tight around the edges. "Gary Hobson. And you have come to us from--?" 

"Chicago. Illinois. The United States of America," he said, enunciating each syllable. Not a spark of recognition lit either of their faces. 

"It sounds vaguely Mediterranean," Fergus told Morgelyn, out of the corner of his mouth, "but I have never heard of it, and I am sure I would have remembered such a name. He's not swarthy enough to be a Greek or a Roman." 

Gary shifted, then got up from the wooden bench, which was quickly becoming uncomfortable. His turn. He paced over to the window and back. Folding his arms over his chest, he pinned Morgelyn with what he hoped was a steady, no-nonsense look. "You wanna tell me where I am? And when? And how the hell I got here?" 

"You do not know?" she asked, just as she had earlier in the afternoon. Maybe she thought the answer would change, but Gary again shook his head. 

"Not a clue, lady." 

She slipped off the bench, taking a few short steps closer to the fire, hands clasped in front of her. She turned to face Gary. "This is Cornwall. You are on the southern edge of the peninsula, near the village of Gwenyllan." 

Gary's mind raced. Cornwall was somewhere in England, wasn't it? What geographic prowess he possessed had been focused on Chicago's neighborhoods for so long now, he couldn't be sure of anything beyond the basics. 

"And this is the year of our Lord, 1351." 

He must have heard her wrong. His arms dropped to his sides. " _When_?" 

"1351. Are you sure you are not deaf?" Fergus asked, as though speaking to a small child. 

Running his right hand from his forehead to the nape of his neck, and holding it there, Gary sank slowly back down onto the bench. "Thirteen--but that's, that's--" He could do the math. It was believing it enough to say it that was the problem. "That's more than six hundred years ago. Six hundred years and--" How many thousand miles? he wondered. At least three, maybe four. "This is a joke, right?" 

"I assure you, it is not a joke at all." Morgelyn's voice was solemn and laced with worry, like Marissa's when he talked to her about the most catastrophic stories in the paper. 

No wonder they had never heard of Chicago or the United States. Did they even know North America existed? That the world was round? No wonder they couldn't understand him, no wonder they looked at him so strangely, no--no. 

No, the wonder was that he was here at all. 

"Wait, wait a moment." Fergus pushed his bench back from the table, bouncing to his feet. "Did you say six hundred years _ago_?" He turned to Morgelyn. "I thought you said he was a dragon slayer, as in the old legends, like St. George." 

"I thought he would be." Her voice faltered, the first in the smooth facade of calm she'd worn since Gary had met her. "That is what grandmother said when she--" Frowning, she added, almost to herself, "Perhaps I misheard." 

"Excuse me?" Gary jumped up and strode toward Morgelyn, both hands on his hips as he stared down at her. "Are you telling me that I'm here because you made a mistake? Are you some kind of witch? You sucked me out of my own life, into--into this nightmare ? You did this to me, and you didn't even know what the hell you were doing?" 

Morgelyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out, and she backed away from him, steadying herself by clutching at the shelf behind her. Her eyes were round with a fear that unnerved him even more. It was Fergus who spoke, interjecting himself between the two as he frowned up at Gary. "Sire, I do not know what formalities you hold where you come from, but that is no way to speak to a lady, especially one who has offered you her hospitality." 

"I didn't ask for any hospitality," Gary pointed out, his voice an ominous growl. "I still don't know how, but she did this to me, and now she's telling me it's a mistake, and I'm supposed to be nice about it?" He jabbed a finger over Fergus's shoulder at the target of his irritation. 

Fergus's hand went to his side, where the hilt of a hunting knife hung from his belt. "You are supposed to be a gentleman," he told Gary, "or you may go back to where you came from." 

"That would be just fine with me, but I don't know how!" 

"Sir," Fergus began, an edge in his voice, but Morgelyn intervened, stepping from behind him and holding out a hand. 

"Fergus, enough." 

"But--" 

"Enough." 

"He called you a witch." 

"I heard." She caught and held Gary's eyes with a steady gaze. "He is a long way from home. I daresay either of us would feel the same in his place." 

Fergus looked from Morgelyn to Gary and back, and then his hand dropped slowly away from the knife. His expression still wary, he nodded briefly as he and Gary both relaxed just a fraction, standing down. 

"How?" Gary asked Morgelyn, barely in control. "How did I get here?" 

She pulled her shoulders up. "My grandmother gave me a scrying glass shortly before she died. It was old, very old, and it came with a prophecy. A promise that it would bring help in time of need. When need intersected--" She laced her fingers together, stiff and straight, and held them before her. "--with faith. She told me that I had to have faith, that this village, Gwenyllan, would need me. That we would all need you. Or at least, that was what she tried to tell me." 

What village? Gary wanted to ask. All he'd seen so far was a cottage and these two people. 

Morgelyn sighed, looking down at her hands. "Fergus has tried to help." She flashed a weak smile at her friend, who was still watching Gary through narrowed eyes. "He brought me books that speak of such objects, things that were made by the old ones, the Celts who lived here before the Christians. I learned a little, enough to know that there are objects like this that are conduits across time, but I could find nothing that explained the exact meaning of the object Grandmother left me. She said it would bring us a dragon slayer, and so I held it and prayed. I tried to have faith that he would be sent in our hour of need. I have tried it so many times before, and nothing ever happened, but today was the first time I had it down by the river, and you came." Dropping her hands, she looked up at Gary without any subtrefuge in her eyes. "I thought it was because you wanted to. There has to be an intersection, that's what she said. Need and belief. We needed help. You must have believed you could provide that help." 

"Help you?" Gary asked weakly. "I didn't even know about you." He'd known what Kelyn had told him, and what was in her grandmother's letter to Snow, but that letter hadn't said anything about time travel, or six-hundred-year-old clones of his best friends. 

Morgelyn's eyes pleaded with him, but he couldn't tell for what. "You must have one with you. That is how such things work; I am sure I translated that part correctly." 

"One what?" asked Gary, confused. 

"The scrying glass. It works across time. 'Tis a conduit, it pulls the dragon slayer to those who need him." 

"This, uh...crying?" 

"Scrying." 

"Yeah. This glass thing. It wouldn't be about so big?" Gary framed an imaginary tennis ball with his hands. "'Bout like this, with a bunch of twisted metal at the bottom, would it?" 

"Yes, that's it!" Her face lit up. "You have it?" 

Gary closed his eyes for a brief second. "I did when I fell in the lake, back in 1998." 

Fergus mouthed, "1998?" Gary acknowledged his astonishment with a brief nod. 

"Well, if you had it, then you must be the right one! It was not a mistake after all." Morgelyn smiled at him encouragingly, but Gary was far from assured. 

"I keep telling you, I'm not who you're looking for. I'm not a dragon slayer. Where I come from, we don't have dragons. We don't even believe in them." 

_A dragon slayer with a newspaper for a sword_ , some annoying part of his brain quoted at him, but he pushed that thought away. He had zero qualifications for whatever it was she wanted him to do. 

"He told me he is nothing more than a tavern-keeper," Fergus told Morgelyn, a note of derision in his voice. 

"Is that true? Then how did you get the glass?" 

Gary flashed a glare at Cat, who was now awake, watching the proceedings with its usual mysteriously blank expression. "I got it because someone gave it to me. I didn't understand what she was trying to tell me about it. I don't think she knew the truth." 

"Why you? How did it come to her?" Morgelyn pressed. 

"Her grandmother," Gary said, and despite his proximity to the fire, his lower arms broke out in goosebumps at the hope that flashed across Morgelyn's features. 

She dared a half-step closer. "Why did she choose you?" 

Gary turned to where his clothes lay drying on the floor behind him. He reached for his coat while the other two watched in silence, and there, tucked into the inner pocket where he'd stuffed it before stalking out of McGinty's, was the paper. Still damp, it came out reluctantly, one corner tearing off the back page. Remembering what had happened the last time he'd been transported like this, he was grateful that he at least had it, this one tenuous tether to his real life. Morgelyn watched, her eyes wide, as he set it down on the table, surprised and relieved to find that the front page was still the same; a shot of the downtown skyline with the header: "Expressway Expansion Approved." 

"Because of this." 

The paper seemed so innocuous, now that he was too far away to do anything about any of the stories in it; it was benign, its power exhausted, as it usually was by the time Gary called it a day. And yet, the effect it had on Morgelyn and Fergus was anything but innocuous. 

They approached it cautiously, almost reverently, Morgelyn grabbing Fergus's wrist before his outstretched fingers could even brush the pages. Her mouth was slightly open as she turned to Gary with wonder on her face. "This is magic, indeed. What do you call this?" 

"It's a newspaper." 

Fergus contorted his face, appearing to roll the word around in his mouth before repeating it. "Newspaper?" 

"It comes out every day and tells what happened the day before, " Gary explained. He lifted one of the candles from the other end of the table and set it close to the paper, so that they could read it better. "You know, the news. And it's on paper, so we call it a newspaper." 

"Every day?" Morgelyn peered more closely at the _Sun Times_. "But--but some of the print is so tiny! It would take the monks at the abbey weeks to do this page alone. The illuminations are so small, I cannot even see the lines where you inked them, and this is only one page. I do not see how you could possibly--may we?" she finished in a breathless rush, her hand poised over the bottom corner of the cover. When Gary nodded, she turned to the second page, and then the third, so delicately that even the wet edges of the paper didn't tear. 

Fergus peeked over her shoulder, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. "What manner of drawings are these?" he asked. "You have a very odd imagination, my friend. And what is this language?" 

"It's English, like we're--sort of--speaking--look, I didn't make this." It was almost laughable: here they were in awe of Gary's paper, and they had no idea that it was tomorrow's. He caught himself looking over at Cat, the only one in the room who'd get the joke. 

"But then where--how--" Morgelyn seemed nearly as overwhelmed by the newspaper as Gary had been by his dislocation in time and space. 

This is where I come from," Gary explained, reaching over to close the paper so that the front page showed again. He pointed to the photograph that took up half the page. "Here, this is the city of Chicago. These are buildings where people live and work. Lots of people." He spread his arm wide. "Thousands, millions of people. And a lot of them, the adults anyway, they get newspapers like this everyday. No one sits and writes them out, not by hand. Well, I mean, real people do decide what words to use to tell the stories, but there are computers and printing presses. Machines, special machines, that put the words on the paper, over and over again." 

They both blinked at him. "Really fast," he added. 

When they still didn't seem to understand, Gary asked, "What about you? In your village, how do you know what's happened to other people? How do you know what's happening in the world around you?" 

"Oh." Morgelyn thought for a moment. "In Gwenyllan, the news usually travels when people tell each other. Or if it is important, the town crier will call it out in the village streets. Travelers like Fergus bring us news from far away. If it is very important, the chronicler at the abbey will record it for posterity. But ink and parchment are so dear, we could never have anything like this. Do you really mean that all the people receive their news this way?" 

Gary decided radio and television were beyond his power to explain. "Pretty much." 

"They can all read?" 

"Most of them." 

Fergus shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I am convinced now that you really are not from the past. If such wonders existed then, we would surely know of them now." 

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." 

"Unless you're from the lost city of Atlantis!" His eyes sparkled, and he waved his hands in the air, weaving a ridiculous story. "Yes, and you came up from the sea, from the lost springs under the world, and you--" 

"I'm not from Atlantis! I'm from Chicago!" Gary stabbed a finger at the paper. "It's not the city that's lost, it's me." 

Trailing a finger down the front page pensively, Morgelyn turned to look at him. "You said, though, that everyone gets this newspaper?" Gary nodded. "Then I don't understand. You also said that you were given the scrying glass because you had this, but if everyone else in this Chicago has one as well..." She left the question hanging in the air. 

Rubbing his right thumb over the palm of his left hand, Gary fumbled for the best way to explain. "I guess you could say that's where the real magic comes in." When Fergus raised an eyebrow, Gary told him, "All the rest of this, it's no big deal. It's science. You'll figure it out." He waved his hand toward the paper. "Or someone will. Guy named Guttenberg. in a couple hundred years or so." He'd never been very good at remembering dates. "The thing is," he went on when Fergus opened his mouth, presumably to interrupt with more questions, "I don't get the same paper as everyone else. It takes a day to record what's happened, and to put it through the machines and stuff, and deliver the copies to people. But the paper I get tells about things before they happen. I don't know why I get it, or where it comes from, except that it comes with this cat every morning." Cat meowed and padded across the floor, rubbing its back against Gary's leg. 

"So you know the future?" Morgelyn asked. 

"Some of it. I mean, okay, look at this." He started to explain the freeway expansion story, then realized that it would involve all kinds of issues he really didn't want to get into at the moment, starting with cars, running through toll booths and beyond. That would never do, nor would most of the stories on the front page about the boom in technology stocks, an airline pilots' strike, the possibility of impeachment hearings in Washington--good God, no. He turned to the second page and found something safer. 

"Here. See that? It says that a new library is opening." He was met by two still-blank faces. "A library is--it's a big building where people keep books." Morgelyn had mentioned books, so they would understand that much, at least. "All the people who live in the city can borrow them. Except that here it says that the library opened yesterday, but really, it opened today. I read about it a day before, because my paper comes early." 

Uncomfortable with the silence that followed his pronouncement, Gary took a step back from the cluster at the table. Maybe he shouldn't have shot his mouth off so quickly, but what choice did he have? 

On the other hand, what did medieval people do to those they considered insane? 

Fergus cleared his throat. "What did you slip into the ale, Morgelyn, and did you put it in his glass, or mine?" 

But Morgelyn, having caught on far more quickly to what Gary was trying to explain than anyone since--well, since Marissa first found out about the paper--ignored the question in favor of her own. "What is the purpose of you receiving this newspaper a day early?" 

Good question, Gary thought; he'd been wondering the same thing for the past two years. "I'm not sure why it's me, but you see, bad things happen, too, and I try to stop them." 

"You are a hero." 

"Nah. I'm just a guy with a--with a--" Gary's stomach did a flip at the memory of Crumb's voice, accusing him of having a crystal ball, but he broke off in mid-sentence, his eye caught by a story at the bottom of the next page. He moved closer, pointing at it. "Look, here's a perfect example of why I need to be back there, now I can't stop--" 

For a moment he forgot to breathe. 

"Cannot stop what?" Fergus asked. 

Morgelyn stared first at Gary, then at the spot on the paper where his hand had frozen. "L--L--o--" She covered Gary's fingers with her own, gently pulling them out of the way so she could read. "I know the letters, but the words mean nothing to me." 

"It says--" He gulped. "Local Man Missing, Presumed Drowned." 

"What--" Fergus began, but Morgelyn silenced him with a shake of her head. 

"Gary?" she asked. 

"It's me." His knees gave out. He sat down on the bench. 

"I do not understand." Frowning down at the paper, Morgelyn said quietly, "I wish I could read this." 

He slid the paper out from under her hand, trying to form words of his own around his shock as he read the rest of the story to himself. "It's me, the guy they think drowned." And he had, he'd drowned in gulls crying, colors swirling, icy-dark water, Marissa shouting at him to take her hand. 

This was nuts. 

_"That's okay. I've taken courses in nuts."_

Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "I was talking to Marissa and we were walking on the pier and then that damn globe started changing and I fell in and she must have--she couldn't see me and according to this they can't find--they all think--oh, my God." 

He closed his eyes, too late. Snippets of print had lodged themselves behind his eyelids. 

_"...search and rescue teams worked for over three hours but were unable to retrieve..."_

_"...Chicago police at the scene said they do not suspect foul play..."_

_"...only witness, a blind woman and friend of Mr. Hobson..."_

"You have to get me home." 

"But I do not--" 

His hand shot out, knocking the paper to the ground and clamping around Morgelyn's arm just above the wrist. "I mean it. This has gone far enough. A joke's a joke, but this isn't funny anymore." He knew, of course, that it was no joke. If it had been, that story wouldn't have been in the paper. "My friends think I'm dead." He jumped to his feet without releasing Morgelyn's arm. "I can't do this, I can't let them think I'm--they'll--" 

She didn't try to struggle out of his grip, but Morgelyn began to shake, ever so slightly. "I want to help you, truly, but the only way I know to get you home is the same way you got here." 

"Then do it!" he demanded, his face so close to hers they were nearly touching. 

She winced, then whispered, "I cannot." 

The reflection of the flickering flames danced in her huge, troubled eyes, and Gary gritted his teeth, torn between anger and a weird kind of sympathy. She looked so much like--he drew in a breath. "Look, I know you need a dragon killed or something like that, but we've already established that I'm not the guy." 

Closing her eyes, Morgelyn drew a deep breath. "I no longer have the scrying glass." 

Gary dropped her arm, took a step back. "What?" 

"I lost it in the river," she admitted in a tremulous voice. "It fell out of my hands when I called you here." 

Behind her, Fergus clapped a hand to his forehead. 

"How--how could you--" Gary stammered. It was bad enough he had to believe this fairy tale was real, now he had to be trapped in it? 

"You popped up in the water!" Morgelyn retorted, her voice was gaining in strength. "You were drowning right in front of my eyes! I could not let that happen. I reached out for you without thinking and it fell in, but the river carried you away, and I did not see the glass. I wanted to make sure you were all right." 

"She was trying to save your life," Fergus cut in, but Gary whirled on him, jabbing a finger at his chest. 

"You stay out of this. This is all her fault." Gary glared at Morgelyn. Anger was winning now. "You used this thing, when you said you weren't even sure how it worked." 

"Like you and your paper?" she asked pointedly. 

"I do not try to mess up people's lives, I try to save them!" 

"As am I! There are two hundred souls in this village who need help." Her eyes flashing defiance, she placed both hands on her hips. 

"And what about my soul, huh? What about me? And my friends, and the people who count on me, even though they don't know it? I've got a life, lady. I've got plenty of responsibilities of my own, and if you needed help, you should have thought to ask before you went and yanked me into the wrong time, the wrong place. You had no right!" He took another step toward Morgelyn, but she didn't back down. 

"I did not yank you," she told him, and her voice was solid steel. "You had as much to do with this as I did." 

Gary heard a ringing in his ears, and it wasn't church bells this time. "What the hell are you talking about? I didn't want this, I didn't ask for this." 

"I told you, " she insisted, locking her fingers together again, "there has to be an intersection. We must have been holding the glass at the same time, or mayhap I had to wait until you had it." She shook her head and looked totally perplexed. "I thought it was a paradox, but it is time, time in a circle, time in a knot." She twisted the fingers of one hand around those of the other, then separated them. "The glass somehow came down to your time, and when we both held it, and our need and our faith were greatest, our times intersected, and we met." 

Cat wove its way around Gary's legs. He tried to shake it off as he glowered at Morgelyn. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but you damn well better un-intersect it." 

"I cannot undo this until we have the glass again." She gulped and didn't look away, but the bravado fled as she admitted, "Even then, I believe someone from your own time will have to call you back." 

Marissa. On that dock. When he wasn't found, she would..."There's only one person who would even begin to believe this, and if she thinks I'm dead, she won't think she can do anything." The ringing in Gary's ears grew louder, and he staggered back against a bench and sat with a jarring thump. "The only thing they're gonna believe is that I'm at the bottom of that lake! I can't stay here. I have to go home." 

"We will find a way, I promise, I will try everything, but right now I do not--" Morgelyn's voice caught, and in the firelight her eyes were suspiciously bright as she held out a hand in apology. "I am so sorry, Gary." 

Something inside of him split in two at the words Marissa hated coming from what might as well have been her own mouth. He leapt to his feet again. He had to get away from it, had to get out of the confining cottage, away from her. Grabbing his coat, his own bomber, from the floor, he strode toward the door. 

"Where are you going?" The question was quiet, not an accusation. She wasn't trying to stop him, though Fergus took a step forward, as though he might. Morgelyn placed a restraining hand on her friend's arm. 

"I gotta think," Gary muttered, and he pulled the door open. Cat darted outside ahead of him as he stalked off into the night. 


	4. Chapter 4

_And the white breast of the dim sea  
And all dishevelled wandering stars_  
~ W. B. Yeats

Gary's anger dissipated as he walked, but he couldn't say the same for the anxiety that every step sent churning through his bloodstream. His bruises, especially those on his shoulder, were starting to throb again, but they were a mild annoyance compared to his concern over what everyone back home would be thinking right about now. That he might never be able to go back and assure them he was still alive was the worst part of the entire twisted scenario. What a horrible, tangled mess. How much of it was of his own making?

He made his way through the forest, guided as much by the sound of rushing water as by the trail, a dull track in the starlight and the close-to-full moon. Here, there were no cars, no rattling L trains, no jet engines roaring overhead, but that didn't mean that it was quiet. Insects chirruped, the underbrush rustled, and once an owl hooted so close to the path that Gary jumped, his heart racing even faster than before.

Maybe it was stupid to wander around completely unfamiliar territory in the dark, but he needed to think, and there was no way he could do it in that cabin, not with those two watching him, expecting him to do...what? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Before long, he was at the river, watching the charcoal water cascade over the falls and send up spray as it hit the rocks below. He was lucky, Gary thought as he rubbed his sore shoulder, that he hadn't been completely smashed in the twenty-foot tumble he'd taken. 

Lucky. Now there was a relative term if he'd ever heard one.

If--and this was still a big if--if he accepted that what was happening to him was real, how in the world would he ever get back home? Where was home from here, anyway? He wasn't sure where Cornwall was; heck, he wasn't even sure if those people had been telling him the truth.

But what possible reason could they have for lying? Especially Morgelyn. Gary couldn't picture her being part of a plot against his sanity. 

Now, a plot to ruin his life? That was a possibility.

Scooping up a handful of stones from the river bank and tossing them one by one, halfheartedly at first and then with increasing force, he recanted. Whoever she was, whatever it was she wanted or needed from him, he couldn't believe that she would deliberately hurt him. Or anyone, for that matter.

But then, maybe he thought that because she looked and acted so much like Marissa. The final stone clattered on the far bank of the river.

"Meow."

"What do you want?"

Cat sat on its haunches, looking at Gary, then back into the woods, in the direction of the cabin.

"Not yet." He turned in the direction of the falls, but even along the riverbank the drop was steep, and he wasn't sure he could climb it in the dark. He turned to follow the river downstream instead, just to see where it went. Not too far, but far enough to distract himself for a little while, far enough to just calm the hell down.

Before too long, however, the path veered away from the river, and Gary, unsure of his footing the slippery bank, chose to stick with it. He could still hear the river, but it seemed to be slowing down, and from what he could see through occasional breaks in the trees, widening. Eventually the path led up a hill, one of those that was so gradually graded that Gary didn't realize, until he stopped and looked behind him, just how far he'd climbed. Cat stayed with him every step of the way. Unusual behavior, but, in a strange way, welcome. 

The path was bordered with bracken, low bushes that brushed against Gary as he hurried...where? He didn't know, and at this point, he didn't really care. He'd go back to the cottage when and if he damn well felt like it, and as long as Cat wasn't complaining too loudly, Gary was pretty sure there wouldn't be any harm done.

A few more feet up, and he gradually became aware of a constant, wild, thudding noise. Water, but not the river, it was too dispersed for that. 

The southern coast of Cornwall, Morgelyn had said. He took the crest of the hill in two long strides, and there it was, at the bottom of what must have been a fifty-foot drop, spread out before him in indigo blues and blacks.

He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the ocean. A couple of vacations in Florida when he was a kid, a road trip out to Southern California with Chuck and some other frat guys in college, and, of course, that time sailing with Marcia. He'd seen the Atlantic and the Pacific, and the Gulf, but never anything like this.

White-crested and glowing in the light of the moon, towering waves hurled themselves at the monolithic boulders scattered along the coastline, crashing in constant explosions of sound and water and light. The crystal spray refracted back the rays of what had to be thousands, absolutely thousands, of stars. For the second time that night, several moments ticked by in which he forgot to breathe.

The sky was littered with constellations he remembered from childhood: the Big and Little Dippers, the North Star, Cassiopeia, and, dancing just above the horizon, the Pleiades. Even more amazing, though, were all the stars that glowed in and around the familiar groupings and gave the sky depth, some faint, some so bright he felt like he could reach up and grab them--stars for which he had no names, in clusters and strings, separate and together, as if a child had taken handfuls of silver glitter and sequins and flung them, willy-nilly, across the sky. 

He stared at the spectacles above and below, all other thought suspended for what might have been hours or mere seconds. Cat leaned companionably against his leg, delicately licking one paw, then another, unconcerned and bored, as if it stood before marvels like this every single day.

Heck, for all Gary knew, maybe it did.

Just off the path there was a flat-topped rock, bigger than Morgelyn's table and slightly shorter than Gary. Finding stair-step juttings and handholds, he clambered up it and sat, staring down at the panorama of incalculable gallons of water. How long had it been since he'd been this far from the city? Years, certainly; long before the paper had started to arrive, except for his one failed attempt to outrun it. Not since early in his marriage. Marcia had never been big on the great outdoors. But Marcia didn't fit here, and the thought winked out like a falling star.

Tempted by the thought of placing himself in the midst of the wild display, he would have gone down to the shore, but the drop off was as steep as it was high, and trying to find a way down in the dark didn't seem like such a hot idea. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, and then chastised himself for planning on staying here, when he should be trying to figure out a way to get home. 

But this seemed too big to run away from. It was all so big, the ocean and the stars, and as the waves threw themselves relentlessly against the rocks below, cracking open and apart with dull, echoing thunder, something in Gary, something that was maybe, just maybe, nearly as big as this, opened up as well. His earlier rage seemed completely ineffectual compared to this display, and while he was still sick at the thought of what must be happening in Chicago, it was somehow a lot easier to deal with out here.

He should have listened to Marissa's, and Crumb's, initial concerns about what Kelyn Gillespie had wanted with him. Had she known what would happen? Probably not, or surely she would have told him more. But then Gary wouldn't have taken the thing at all, would he? He could hear Chuck now; Chuck, who'd always told him he trusted people far too easily: _Brilliant move, Gar._

__

__

And speaking of trusting people, he came back again to Morgelyn and Fergus, and the incredible fact that he had just had dinner with two people who, by rights, would have died half a millennium before he existed. Who were these people, and how could they just take something like the sudden appearance of someone from the future in their stride? He still wasn't sure how any of this had happened, despite Morgelyn's attempts to explain. 

The answer wasn't out here, but some measure of peace was. One wave after another rolled in. Those that didn't crash on the rocks would push in, closer and closer, and then break somewhere beyond the boulders, their white crests spiraling outward from the centers. Lying back with a sigh, his hands behind his head, he turned his attention to the thick canopy of stars above him. A meteor streaked across the sky. 

They could see this every single night, and they thought his newspaper was magic?

Newspaper or no, magic or not, he finally admitted to himself, they probably thought he was a first-class heel. He hadn't meant to hurt Morgelyn's feelings, any more than he'd meant to hurt Marissa's earlier that day. That day that was now six hundred years in the future, and so far away that even if he could find a boat to sail this ocean, no one, no one at all, would believe in, or even understand, where he wanted to go. The only one who could get him home was Morgelyn--and Marissa, if what he'd been told was true. The rock's cold seeped through his jacket, carrying its damp chill into his bones, and Gary sat up stiffly.

What was this called? A Catch-22, wasn't it? He couldn't get home unless someone--and it had to be Marissa, who else could it be?--would not only believe that he could come home, but also do something, he still wasn't sure what, with that crystal ball. Which was probably at the bottom of Lake Michigan. But there was no way for her to know that, to even know he was alive, unless someone told her, and Gary couldn't tell her unless he could get home. 

Cat, who had been prowling around the rock while Gary thought, leapt up into his lap in one smooth motion, purring like a Thunderbird's engine when Gary absently began to stoke its ears in time with the rhythm of the waves. He had no idea how long they sat like that, while he turned the situation over and over in his head, and Cat dozed, probably dreaming of mice. But when he stopped stroking its fur, it looked up at him with eyes that gleamed in the moonlight, and Gary shivered at the depths he saw there. "Why you gotta go and make my life so difficult, anyway?" he demanded. Cat blinked.

"Well, yeah, I know it wasn't you this time, it was her, but she wouldn't have been able to if I didn't have that thing, and I wouldn't have had it if it hadn't been for you and the damn paper in the first place."

Cat put its front paws on Gary's chest and stared at him for another moment, then curled into a neat ball in his lap. Gary watched the water for a few more heartbeats before he admitted to himself that while he still didn't know where the paper came from, or why he had been chosen in the first place, he did, in fact, know why it kept coming.

Because he did what it needed to have done. He helped people. Maybe not forever, maybe not always in ways that changed their attitudes or their hearts, but for long enough to give them a chance to make those changes, sometime in a future they might not have had without his interference. And while he didn't like having his life ruled by a dictatorial cat and a few measly sheets of newsprint, he most definitely wanted to help.

So what made this any different? Instead of the paper telling him who to help, someone was asking him directly. A tad bit imperiously, perhaps, but still...she was asking. Asking him, even though he wasn't who she had hoped for. How could he say no, when she--well, that was the catch, wasn't it? She was so much like, both the people back in that cabin were so much like, the two people in the world for whom he would have done anything. 

Maybe that was why the paper had sent him. Maybe he was here for a reason. It had happened before. 

Going back in time to help Eleanor and Jesse Mayfield, that had been for a reason; his actions in the past had changed something in his own present. Gary didn't really see how this particular situation tied into Chicago, 1998, and surely not even the paper, or whatever guided it, could run a direct line tying cause to effect across six and a half centuries. Then again, he hadn't understood the purpose of being in 1871 while he was there, either. 

As far as what was happening back in his own time, well, that was clearly and completely out of his control, awful though it might be. If that article had already happened, Marissa and anyone else who knew by now, had to be going out of their minds with worry, or more likely, he admitted as his stomach knotted, with grief. But Marissa was the one who always said that things happened for a reason. Things happened for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain. And in the end, they worked out. They had to. If he never got home, he _would_ be dead, as far as they were concerned. It didn't hurt as much, out here, to admit that. 

But he would get home. There was no alternative. The cat had followed him here, and that meant that whoever or whatever sent the paper hadn't given up on him yet. He was still expected to do what he could. Especially for the people who were somehow connected to his friends, even if that connection existed only in his own mind. He knew there was no real chance at all that he would withhold whatever help he could give. What right did he have to refuse to help someone who looked and acted just like Marissa?

What right did he have to refuse anyone at all?

He shook off the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Chuck, telling him he had a right to live in his own home, to not be dead to his parents and friends. The responsibility of the paper was all about putting others' needs before his own, especially when, if Morgelyn was right, the fate of a whole village of people hung in the balance. His friends would have understood, had he been able to explain it to them. At least Marissa would have. 

At least, he was fairly sure she would have. Heck, she was the one who had teased him about being a knight in shining armor.

But he was not going to wear a tin can. 

"All right," he finally said with a sigh. "All right, look, Cat, you got me into this, you get me out. I don't know how you got here, but if you did, then you can get back, right?" The feline uncurled itself enough to lift its head and regard Gary with its implacable gaze. Wrapping both hands under its front legs, Gary lifted Cat until they were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. "I'll make you a deal. I'll do this for them, not for you. But you have to make sure I can get home in the end. I don't think I can live in a world where I have to dress like this for very long." 

"Re-ow," said Cat, and Gary had to assume it was a bargain. Cat settled back into his lap, and Gary watched the ocean and the sky for a little while longer before sliding down from the boulder and returning to the path. The moon had risen higher during his reverie, so it was easier to pick his way back down the path than he would have expected. Before long he was back alongside the river, and Cat was stepping daintily at the water's edge, a grounded, four-legged tightrope walker. 

The bushes behind him rattled. 

Heart pounding, he jumped and turned. A pair of glittering green eyes peeked up at him from the underbrush, and he backed away on tiptoe, reminding himself that whatever it was, it was probably just as startled by him as he was by it. 

Fox, he thought to himself. Raccoon, possum. Did they have those in England? Badgers. He was almost sure there had been a badger in some English kids' book his mom had read to him when he was little. That's what it must have been, he decided when the eyes blinked away departed with another rustle. Badger. 

"Nothing to worry about," he muttered to Cat, but he picked up the pace even as he said it. 

Except there was no Cat to hear him; it had disappeared. "Hey, Cat!" he called softly, afraid of what else might respond. An answering mew came from several yards ahead, and he hurried to catch up, tired now and aching from the bruises and the cold. It was definitely time to return to the warmth of the cottage, if they'd take him back.

Moonlight streamed through tree branches, illuminating the pebbled riverbank. Orange and yellow fur gleaming, Cat sat right in the center of a moonbeam, casting a lion-sized shadow on the river's surface. 

"Whatcha sittin' there for?" he asked. Cat pawed at the surface of the shallows, and, as he approached, he could see something else shining in the moonlight. Glass, a round, spherical surface. He dropped to his knees, plunging his arm into the same river that had nearly done him in a few hours ago. He extracted the now-familiar globe from the half-built, long abandoned beaver dam in which it had become trapped. "Hey, you did it, you found it! I can go home now, can't I?" 

Cat cocked its head to one side. 

"I know, Marissa has to do something too, but she's smart, she'll figure it out, we just need to..." Rocking back on his heels, Gary trailed off, reading accusation in Cat's stare. "I know, I said I'd help them, and I will. I _will_ ," he added firmly, when Cat refused to look away, or even blink. "Okay, look." He slipped the treasure into the inner pocket, the one where he usually kept the paper, and held up his empty hands. "Here, see? It's gone. Nothing going on here, not until I find out what needs doing, all right? All right?"

"Me- _ow_. "

"I _promise_. Whaddya think I am, some kinda jerk?" He ignored the voice inside his head that said, yeah, a completely insane jerk, you're talking to a cat and you think you're six hundred years and four thousand miles away from where you started your day. 

Apparently satisfied, Cat turned, head held high as it took a few more steps upstream.

"You just better keep your end of the bargain," Gary warned. At that, Cat paused, tilted its head to one side as if listening for something, and then darted off like a streak through the underbrush, leaving no sound at all in its wake.

That had to be some kind of sign, but Gary wasn't sure whether it was good or bad. Nonetheless, he found himself whistling as he patted the lump in his jacket and picked his way, thin shoes and all, along the path that led to Morgelyn's cottage.

  


* * *

  


_Half moon hiding in the clouds, my darling  
And the sky is flecked with signs of hope  
Raise your weary wings against the rain, my baby  
Wash your tangled curls with gambler's soap_  
~ Paul Simon

Marissa was afraid Crumb would plant himself on her sofa and refuse to leave, but he seemed to understand that she needed to back away from the edge of this precipice on her own. Either that, or he was as exhausted as she, too battered to put up a fight. He saw her to her door, promised to call later, gave her a quick hug, and was gone. 

Locking the door with a sigh, she leaned her head against its smooth surface and inhaled the scent of varnish for a moment. The echoing silence around her was almost more than she could bear. She came very close to opening the door, to calling Crumb back before he could get in his car. The insistent clicking of Spike's nails on the hardwood floor, making a beeline to the kitchen, decided the matter for her. She pushed away from the door and slipped out of her shoes before following her dog through the foyer and living room.

One thing at a time.

Set the crystal ball on the coffee table. Do not hurl it against the wall.

She clenched her fists and made her way into the kitchen.

Food in the dog's bowl. Water in the kettle. Kettle on the stove. Mug and tea bag from the second cupboard from the wall.

Collapse in a chair. Wait for the water to boil. Deep breaths.

Think.

But not too hard.

Thinking was entirely too hard. It involved remembering, and that was all she had done for the past few hours: stand on the pier and remember thirty individual seconds. Every word, every sound, every scent, every texture, over and over and over, until they were etched in her ears and nose, imprinted on her fingers in their own Braille code of confusion and fear. 

She remembered it all, every agonizing detail, and it didn't help one bit. They would never know what had happened to Gary. She would never--

She wrapped one arm over her stomach, pressed her other fist against her mouth, and fought the urge to cry, to scream, to rail against fate. A whimper, a pathetic echo of the storm of emotions raging inside her, escaped. The relentless crunching over by the back door stopped; Spike's tags rattled, his nails clicked over the linoleum, and then his head was in her lap. 

"Good boy," she mumbled through her fist, scratching behind his ears, gulping down the overwhelming tide of emotion. "It's okay, Spike." Satisfied, he padded back over to his dish and started eating again.

Forcing her palms flat against her knees, Marissa inhaled deep, slow breaths. She couldn't do this. She couldn't lose control. She couldn't lose--

_Trust. Hope._

_Don't lose hope._

Don't lose your mind is more like it, she scolded herself. That little voice had been there, niggling at the back of her mind, all afternoon. Why should she listen to it? 

She had to think, but it was so damn hard.

Propping one elbow on the kitchen table, she rested her forehead in her hand. The effort of holding herself together while straining to hear, to feel, to find any clue about what had happened to Gary, had exhausted her. Her throat was tired and tight from the tears clenched inside it. A stabbing pain just over her left eye threatened to overwhelm all thought. Some practical voice, suspiciously like her mother's, cautioned that she needed rest, but Marissa knew that sleep wasn't going to come easily tonight, if at all. 

She wasn't sure she wanted the dreams that would come with it.

Lifting her head, she flopped her hand down on the table, and her fingers brushed the handle of the heavy ceramic mug she'd chosen from the cupboard and carried over here, not even realizing that doing so made no sense at all. Nothing about today made any sense. The reassuring smoothness of the glaze, broken here and there by tiny, imperfect grains, was her only anchor to normality at the moment.

In high school, she'd taken a pottery class. She'd never quite managed a set of mugs, but she remembered throwing clay on the wheel, and how a little pressure from her thumb or finger could change the shape of the whole pot. The point had been to keep the wheel spinning at just the right speed. Too fast, and the clay would fly apart. Too slow, and it would remain shapeless, a helpless blob. 

She couldn't slow down. Not yet. She had to keep moving, keep following her spinning thoughts until the right shape emerged, until a reason for what had happened took form.

There were pieces that didn't add up, didn't make sense, and she needed to understand them before she could accept that Gary--

_Don't accept. Don't resign yourself. Hope._

The kettle whistled.

Rubbing her forehead, Marissa pushed herself to her feet. Three steps to the range. 

Gary fell in the lake.

She had to go back to the table once for the mug, and again for the tea bag.

The splash--there was nowhere else he could have gone.

Shut off the gas burner. Line up the cup and the kettle's spout.

But he wasn't there now. 

It took exactly three seconds to fill the mug. One part of her brain counted them, registered the warmth of the steam and the sweet spicy scent of the tea, while the other continued the litany.

They would have found him if he was there. Everyone had tried so hard.

She set the kettle back down.

_Hope._

No, she had to _think_. What reason was there to hope? It might be easier, it might be less painful than accepting this, but easier wasn't necessarily right. 

_It isn't right to give up. Not yet. Don't give up on Gary._

If she wanted to hope, she had to have a reason.

Reporters had been there. Even if they didn't name names until family had been notified, even then there would still have been articles in the papers. Gary would have mentioned a story about someone falling off the pier and into the lake if he'd seen it. He would have told her if he was out there to stop it. Since he hadn't, she could only assume that the story hadn't been in the paper.

Leaning back against the counter, Marissa wrapped her arms around herself and tried to find a safe place for her thoughts to land.

If the paper hadn't warned Gary, that could mean a lot of things, depending on where the paper came from. It could mean that the source hadn't known that this would happen, that what had happened to Gary had been a glitch in its cosmic plan. 

But she couldn't believe that. "Things happen for a reason," she whispered. She had always believed that, always. And that meant, of course, that whatever, whoever sent the paper to Gary hadn't wanted him to know about and prevent this.

The paper hadn't wanted him to die. It couldn't have wanted that. She refused to accept that. Whatever had happened out there on the dock was part of a bigger plan. It had to be. 

Maybe he didn't...maybe he wasn't...

She pushed away from the counter, rocking on the balls of her feet for a moment before recovering her balance. Picked up the mug and headed back for the living room, Spike padding along at her heels.

The idea refused to be discounted. It tickled up her spine.

_Believe._

Damn it, believe what? If Gary hadn't drowned, what else could have happened?

Whatever had happened, she concluded as she set her mug on the coffee table and picked up the object the divers had recovered, must have had something to do with this. 

Sinking down onto the sofa, she rested her elbows on her knees, held the globe before her, absently tracing her thumbs over the smooth glass surface. Had she been right to resist the urge to tell Crumb, or anyone else for that matter, about those last few seconds? Who would have believed her? No one on the dock that afternoon, that was certain.

But every word that Gary had said about it was still floating in her memory. 

Stories and legends...calling a hero...knights and dragon slayers and she'd pushed this thing into his hands dared him to take it called him a coward and "It's changing, Marissa" and then...

Slowly, moving through the fog of memory, she leaned forward until her forehead was touching the globe. It was cool, impersonal, nothing more than the perfect glass sphere and the finger-wide metal strands, woven into their endless pattern. Very structured, very ordered and symmetrical. The opposite of her own state. 

How could something so basic, metal and glass, cause whatever had happened? How could this hurt Gary? 

God, what if he really was...

Don't be such a coward. Say it.

"Dead." It was only a whisper, but it brought Spike to her side, his tail thumping against the base of the couch. He whined a little when she shuddered violently. 

She set the globe down gently, very gently. Because if she hadn't kept that level of control, she would have dashed it to the floor with every ounce of strength she possessed, and welcomed the shattering of glass. 

"No." She said, a little more loudly. She couldn't make that real yet. No matter what anyone else might think, there were still other possibilities to consider, things no one but she knew.

And Gary.

And Kelyn Gillespie. Marissa rubbed her forehead with one hand and, with the other, picked up her mug and sipped at her tea, considering. She had to talk to the girl.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, when she knew she could keep the wheel spinning at the right speed.

At the moment, she was in danger of slowing down. Blobbification.

Cradling the mug in her hands, she rose and paced the room for a bit, tracing and retracing her path from the couch to the front window and around the coffee table and start all over again and keep moving, keep thinking, keep spinning, keep the shape.

_Don't give up. Not yet._

She wanted to believe that the little voice, the one that whispered so low, almost beyond her hearing, came from outside her--from some force that knew more than she did, and not from her own inability to accept what had happened right in front of her. From God. Because then there would be reason to hope. If it was just her own mind, her own heart, there was nothing left, was there? All the faith in the world couldn't change what had happened. Like the pressure from her fingers against wet clay, it might define what had happened; shape it, give it reason. But she didn't want to assign reason to something like this, not yet.

The paper didn't warn Gary. The crystal ball was still here. There were garbled prophecies in the letter Kelyn had given him about someone needing help.

Gary needed to help. It was what he did. Maybe...

Maybe what, Marissa? she chided herself as the tea scalded the back of her throat. What is it you think you believe?

"Woof!" 

Startled, Marissa jumped. A few drops of tea spilled on her hand. "What is it, boy?"

And then she felt it too. 

A change in the room, a charge, the air gone electric. Surely she wasn't imagining it. Unless she was losing her mind, which was entirely possible.

"Woof!" Spike insisted. Trying to overcome paralysis and the creeping sensation of gossamer feathers tickling the back of her neck, Marissa turned slowly toward the dog behind her.

"Spike?"

Then she heard it. A low, quiet rumbling. Almost like...

...almost like a purr.

She opened her mouth again, but sound wouldn't come. It was too much to ask, too much to hope, if it wasn't what she thought it was.

"Meow."

Her hand went limp. Warm tea splashed over her ankles as the mug tumbled to the floor and crashed, splintering into a thousand tiny shards.

  


* * *

  


_I have known you all my life;  
In fact, I knew you long before...  
All I know is when I called you came  
I have known you by one hundred names._  
~ Nerissa Nields

When Gary arrived back at the cottage, he found Fergus dozing, his head on the table and dangerously close to a low-burning candle. Several books lay open around him, their pages covered with painstakingly-inked drawings and elaborate lettering in a language Gary didn't recognize. There was no sign of Morgelyn. Maybe she had gone to bed. Other than the crackling of wood in the fire, everything was silent until Fergus let out a snore.

"Hey." Gary leaned across the table, scooted the candle out of the way, and shook his shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

"Huh?" Jolting straight up, Fergus snapped his head from side to side. "What, what is it? What's happened?" He blinked blearily at Gary, and his shoulders relaxed. "Oh. You."

"Yeah, me." A more sarcastic comment was on the tip of Gary's tongue, but he decided that he really couldn't blame Fergus for being less than happy with him. He shot a glance around the cabin. "Where's Morgelyn?"

"Why?" Flashing a glare at Gary, Fergus stood and stretched elaborately, then began to close and stack the books. Gary reached for one of the oversized, leather-bound tomes, intending to help, but Fergus snatched it out of his hands. "Are you going to call her more names?" 

Gary knew he deserved that, but it still irritated him. "Of course not. But why isn't she here?"

His arms full of the books, Fergus cocked his head to one side. "She went looking for you. You seemed a bit...out of your depth here, and I believe she was worried about you. Though why she should be, after the way you've behaved, is beyond me." He turned and set the books carefully on a low chest. 

"Worried about what? That I was going to get eaten by a badger?"

"There are worse things than badgers out there," Fergus countered seriously. 

"There's an entire ocean out there." Gary pointed toward the door, and then pulled his hand back to his side. Of course Fergus knew that.

The would-be bard lifted an eyebrow. "Nothing eludes your keen senses, does it, dragon slayer?" He blew out the guttering candle, then moved to the fire and placed two more logs in the flames. Showers of sparks flew up toward the hole in the roof.

"I'm not, you know." He scratched the back of his neck, irritated that everyone he'd run into today seemed to have pegged him as some kind of Superman. Fergus straightened from the fire and fixed him with a questioning gaze. "I'm not some big hero, some knight in shining armor. I don't even know why I'm here." Despite the resolution Gary had just made, Fergus was making him nervous all over again. He wanted to tell him to shave off the goatee so he'd look like himself. Like Chuck. And that would be wrong because he wasn't Chuck, was he? 

"Maybe I'm not really here," Gary muttered to himself. 

"Perhaps it is a dream," Fergus suggested with a shrug. 

"Believe me, it's a possibility I've considered. But I don't think it is. I mean, how could I be dreaming all this? I don't know anything about Cornwall or the Middle Ages."

"The what?"

"Never mind."

"It could be a dream nevertheless." Eyes widening, Fergus speculated, "Maybe all that you are dreaming is false, and you are just dreaming that it is true."

Gary wondered what Freud would say about that one. "But if I'm dreaming, then you're not real." He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. "But we're having this conversation, so--" Giving his head a violent shake, he plopped down on the bench. This was making him dizzy.

Fergus, on the other hand, seemed to be warming to the topic. "Perhaps you are dreaming about a dream!" 

"Will you stop?" Fixing him with the stoniest glare he could muster, Gary reached for the tankard he'd used earlier, then made a face at the taste that swilled through his mouth. He'd forgotten how strange this ale was. But everything was strange now; his whole life was light-years away. Why couldn't this guy understand that?

One hand on his hip, Fergus used his temporary height advantage to scowl down at Gary. "I wonder if your friends will want you back. Are you always this charming?"

He slammed the tankard back down on the table. "Do you always hold a grudge this long?" They stared each other down, and broke at the same moment.

"Look, I'm sorry, I know I was a jerk--"

"I understand that you are not happy to be here--"

They both stopped and looked away, embarrassed. Gary ran a hand over his mouth. "Hey," he finally said, "Thanks for pulling me out of the river. And for putting up with me. It's just really strange to be here. I wasn't planning on any kind of a trip today, just pizza and a ball game." He stood and held out his hand. "I'll try to be less grouchy about the whole thing, okay?"

Fergus frowned at him. "I wish I were able to understand all of what you say. But," he added, a familiar grin breaking across his features, "I know a sincere apology when I hear one, and I was not as hospitable as I could have been." He grasped Gary's hand and shook it firmly, both men relaxing as he did so. "At least, that's what Morgelyn said after you left."

"She did?"

"After she listed all of my faults, yes. I told you earlier, she likes you." 

"Hey, uh--"

"Hay. Uhhh," Fergus repeated, exaggerating Gary's mild drawl. "You have the strangest way of speaking."

"That's what I wanted to ask you about." Now that he felt self-conscious about the way he spoke, Gary struggled to find the right words. "How is it that we can understand each other, but every time I really try to concentrate on what you're saying, I can't figure it out at all?"

"Ah." Fergus nodded.

"Ah." This time Gary mimicked Fergus's accent, which was really, now that he thought about it, nothing like the British inflection Chuck affected every once in a while. 

"I asked Morgelyn about that, too. I must admit, I was afraid that you had cast a charm or a spell on us."

As if Gary was the one doing magic around here. "Not my department."

"Morgelyn seems to agree. She believes that we can understand you because you are needed here."

"Well, that's another thing. Why am I here? I mean, what am I supposed to--" But Fergus lifted a hand.

"I have only arrived here today myself, after several months of travel. To be honest, though--" He paused and cast a guilty glance at the door. "I am not certain that Morgelyn herself knows. She has been trying to make that glass work for years, and now, today, when no immediate danger seems to threaten the village, you have arrived."

Oh, this was great, just perfect. Gary rubbed the back of his neck, party to ease tension and partly to hide his frustration. "If no one knows what's wrong, what am I doing here?"

"There is always trouble of one sort or another these days, but precisely which trouble is going to require your skills is uncertain." Shadows played across Fergus's face as flames leapt from the fire circle. "That is what seems to have unnerved Morgelyn. She is unsettled to a degree that I have rarely seen." 

"Yeah, well, so'm I," Gary muttered.

"Please." Fergus lifted a hand, palm up. "I ask you, have some patience with this. It is not a magic we understand, if indeed magic is what it is. Morgelyn believes that all of it is happening for a reason, and she fears the reason is very dire indeed."

"But how can I help if I don't know what's wrong?" Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gary counted silently to ten. Fergus didn't know, anymore than he did. 

"That, I fear, is a mystery to me." Fergus clapped his arm awkwardly, an apology that Gary accepted with a brief nod. The twinkle returned to the peddler's eyes. "At any rate, it is good to know that you were not eaten by badgers. I bid you good night, for my day has been long." He moved toward the door.

"Where're you going?" Gary asked in bewilderment.

"To the clearing." Fergus grinned. "On a such a night, I relish a good sleep under the stars."

"There sure are a lot of them," Gary acknowledged. He looked around the cabin, at a loss, then waved a hand, palm up, in the direction of the door. "Should we look for her?"

"Who, Morgelyn?" Chuckling, Fergus shook his head. "She would be offended if you did. She knows this place, and everything around it, like the back of her hand. She could make her way from the shore to the village and back blindfolded, I've no doubt. What?" Gary had started at his last words, but wasn't sure how to respond. "Oh, you are thinking of your friend. I had forgotten in all the doings this evening." He shifted uncomfortably. "I did not mean to speak ill of her."

"I know you didn't." 

"At any rate, the best thing is for you to wait for her here. She will have my hide if I let you get away again. You will not be going anywhere else tonight, will you?"

Home was the only place Gary wanted to go, but he didn't know how to even begin. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingered cold metal and glass, but shook his head. He'd made a decision. "No."

It wasn't clear, from Fergus's curt nod, whether he understood Gary's deeper meaning. He only said, "Very well then. Pleasant dreams."

"Yeah, you too."

Pulling the door closed behind him, Fergus left Gary wondering whether he'd sleep long enough to have any dreams. Fergus's jaunty whistle faded away, leaving only the crackling logs and the insects chirping outside. Gary found himself wishing momentarily for Cat's companionship, but he shook that off. 

He found his newspaper folded carefully on one of the small stools near the fire. He could see well enough to read in the firelight if he squinted, and he sank down to the floor, resting his back against the end of one of the table benches. The soles of his feet just brushed the stones around the fire when he stretched out his legs. The warmth was a welcome counterpoint to the chill he felt when he saw that the story was still there. Thank goodness there were no pictures--he wasn't sure he could have taken that. He skimmed the article once, then set the paper back down next to him, on his left. 

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the globe that he'd found in the river. It was, as far as he could tell, an exact duplicate of the one Kelyn had given him. Whether it was the same one, he couldn't say for sure. That didn't matter, as long as it really was a way home. He set it down on the paper and watched the wood burn. This was one story he absolutely would change. But first, he had a job to do--even if nobody seemed to know what it was. 

Fergus was right--that did make it worse, the not knowing. Gary fingered the crinkled newsprint. He was used to knowing.

He sat there and stared at the fire for a while, the four logs he added the only indication of how much time had passed. It was probably wasteful to keep such a strong fire burning when all the wood had to be chopped and carried, but the night was chilly and the dark seemed more alive here than it did at home. Of course, it didn't help that the flames sent shadows of the plants hanging above him dancing across the walls, but even so, Gary understood why people had huddled around fires for safety and comfort since the beginning of time.

When the door creaked open, he pushed the newspaper and globe under the bench behind him. Morgelyn stepped inside, blinked in the weak light, and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw him sitting there. She didn't say a word as she took off her cape and hung it on a hook by the door. When she moved to stand next to the fire, they both stared into the flames instead of at each other, letting the silence deepen around them.

Not even knowing where to begin, Gary finally settled for, "I'm sorry." He figured he had plenty to apologize for: being angry and rude, running off, and, if Fergus could be believed, scaring her.

Morgelyn nodded. "You had cause to be angry," she murmured quietly, "but there are spots out there that are dangerous. You--" She stopped and swallowed hard, and a look of sorrow crossed her face. "A person could slip and fall, and no one would be the wiser until daylight."

Gary bit back the urge to snap at her, to tell her he wasn't that stupid. "I stuck to the path," he said simply.

"Good." She clasped and unclasped her hands, finally sitting down next to him. Still they avoided each other's eyes. Another lightning flash of difference struck Gary: he was used to looking right at Marissa, to gauging her reactions and feelings by reading her face, but he wasn't comfortable with the idea of her doing the same to him. A lot of the time, actually, he was used to seeing her eyelids, and not those big brown orbs focused directly on him.

Bringing her knees in close to her chest, tucking her feet under the voluminous folds of her skirt, Morgelyn sighed. "It is constantly changing, the fire. I can gaze into it for hours and never see the same thing twice."

"Yeah, it's downright hypnotic," Gary muttered.

"And that log there, the little one." She pointed. "See how it glows all red from the inside? And yet it burns from the outside in. 'Tis almost as if--silly as it may sound--as if the fire has always been inside that little branch, and now that it has died and is being consumed, the fire that was its life is glowing to welcome its own destroyer."

Finally, Gary tore his gaze from the mesmerizing flames to stare at Morgelyn, her chin resting pensively on her knees. Her dark hair, unbound, hung nearly to the packed dirt floor of the cottage. There was nothing forced about her words, nothing hidden in her face. She was simply, honestly making an observation. 

"It doesn't sound silly. Morgelyn, I'm--" He started to say it again, and caught himself. She hated that word. But she wasn't who she was. Or maybe it was he who wasn't. Damn, this was confusing. He settled for a compromise. "I owe you an apology. You and Fergus both helped me out today, down by the river, and I haven't thanked you for that. I don't really understand what I'm doing here, but you saved me from drowning, and I appreciate that."

"It is I who owe you an apology." She lifted her head, and turned to look him in the eye, and he tried to suppress a shudder "I want you to know, when I called you, I wasn't calling _you_. I have been trying for a very long time now to make this thing work, but I never thought that a dragon slayer would be someone with a life of his own. I was expecting a legend. A hero from days of old."

"And instead you got me," Gary finished with a wry grin. "I must be a real disappointment to you." 

"That isn't what I meant."

"It's okay. I know I'm not what you wanted." He held his hands out to the fire, though really they weren't that cold. "Heck, I've never even believed in dragons, let alone slain one. But if you promise to help me get back home when this is over, I'll help you, if I can."

She stared down at his hand, and he withdrew it. Morgelyn gulped. "You said people in your time would think you were dead, which is unfair. Your friends must be frantic right now. I know I would be, were I in their place, and I would want you to come home just as soon as you could."

Of course she was right. His parents, Marissa, Chuck, maybe even Crumb; he didn't have a wide circle of family and friends, but they mattered to him and he didn't want them to be hurt. "Marissa would tell me to stay," Gary said. It was one of the things he'd figured out in all the staring he'd done tonight, first at the ocean and stars, and then at the fire. "She'd give me an earful for not jumping at the chance to help in the first place, and tell me not to be a coward." He thought of his conversation with Marissa earlier in the day, when she'd handed him the globe he was fingering now, hidden from Morgelyn at his side. He wondered just how much regret Marissa would be feeling about what she'd said, right now, and how in the world he was going to get back and let her know she'd been right. "She'd tell me to stay," he repeated, "but not forever."

"No, not forever." Morgelyn fixed him with an expression of serious purpose. "I know I said it earlier this evening, but I want you to know I meant it. Even without the scrying glass, there has to be some way to get you home. Fergus and I started with the books he's found for me over the years. There must be something there, something I have missed. I was so intent on getting someone here that I could easily have missed the rest of it. I do not know much about magic." Her voice dropped to a whisper at the word. "Grandmother did not teach me what she knew. Some knowledge isn't safe for one person to contain. Mostly she taught me about things that grow, and how they help people. But though we have not found your way home yet, we will. I promise." After he nodded, sealing the bargain, she crawled over to the woodpile and placed a few more logs on the fire. Gary didn't feel quite so guilty for his earlier indulgence in light and warmth. 

"What I fail to understand is how it was able to bring you here without your consent," Morgelyn mused as she sat back down, facing him, her back to the fire. She pushed away the dried straw that covered the floor and began tracing patterns on the packed earth that reminded him of the silver strands on the scrying glass. "Everything I know about this, everything I was told and read, says that there has to be mutual action. An intersection of faith and need. I thought that meant that I needed help, and you had faith that you could solve the problem. I the person on the other end would know about how the exchange through time worked; that he had to believe in it as much as I did. It makes no sense, unless it is the other way around."

Gary blinked, trying to follow the logic that, to him, was as convoluted as the knots she was drawing. "You think I _needed_ this?"

"Perhaps." She lifted a shoulder. "You must have done something, or it could not have worked at all."

"Gary spread his hands wide. "I couldn't even have imagined this."

"Maybe it is not what you did. Perhaps it is who you are. Something about this place called to you; there must be some kind of connection, if, out of all the dragon slayers who have ever been entrusted with the scrying glass, you were the one that ended up here, the one who was called to this place and this time instead of any of the others."

"How can it have called me? I don't know anything about where I am, or what time this is. I don't think I could even find this place on a map." Gary sighed. "At least the last time, I was still in Chicago."

"The last time?" Morgelyn looked up abruptly, fixing Gary with a piercing stare that made him want to squirm. How was he going to explain this? 

"Something like this--well, not exactly like this, but it was travel through time--happened a few months ago. But I stayed in the same city where I live, and I only went back a hundred years or so."

"How did you get home?"

"I--uh, I ran into a burning building, and got beaned--uh, hit--on the head by some falling rafters." Gary rubbed the back of his neck at the memory of the heat, the sharp crackles of a city catching fire, and Chuck--no, Morris--frantically calling his name. "When I woke up, I was home."

"You ran into a fire?" Her eyes were wide, fearful. Her glance darted to the flames, safely contained in the stone circle, then back to Gary. "I will not let you do that."

"Believe me, I'm not planning on repeating that stunt any time soon."

"Stunt?"

"Escapade? Stupid move? Idiocy?" Gary was getting tired of having to explain his word choices every other time he opened his mouth.

As if she'd read his mind, Morgelyn sighed and said, "This must be so strange for you. That is another thing I didn't think about. That you would know no one, have no landmarks. You must feel as though you have been cast adrift in the ocean."

"A little," he admitted. "But I do have some landmarks." Gary paused, looked at her again, both familiar and strange in the firelight; the old-fashioned clothes, the different hair, the sighted eyes. "It's you, you and Fergus. I kinda think maybe that's why I'm here."

"Because we look like your friends?"

"Because you are like them, in some ways. A lot of ways."

"That could be why you ended up here, I suppose. Is that why you decided to stay?"

"It isn't the whole reason. This is who I am. I help people." Gary shrugged. "I didn't apply for the job, but it seems to have found me, kind of like you did. I'm not too bad at it, most of the time." He turned his gaze back to the fire to avoid the overwhelming hope he saw reflected in her eyes, not sure why it made him so uncomfortable.

"You do not know that you can help." It was both question and statement.

"Not, but it usually works out."

"Usually?"

"Sometimes things go in a direction I don't expect, but they turn out okay." He looked down at his hands. "Once in a while they don't."

"I thought someone who was able to be called by this thing would be more--"

"Worthy?"

"No!" She put a hand on his arm. "I thought a hero would be more sure of himself." She was looking him right in the eye. Gary tried not to squirm. "You don't know that you can help," she repeated, "but you are willing to stay?"

"I never really know if I'll be able to help people, to save them. I've sure never tried anything like this. You said an entire village full of people?" She nodded. "I've never done that before. I mean, I have, sort of, but only because I saved one person. And that turned out to be the way a whole bunch of people were saved. I'm not a hero, not like you mean it."

"I am sure that to the people you have helped, you are a hero."

Gary shook his head, recalling the stinging barbs from the boys in Lake Forest, and the strange looks he often got from people who never knew how close they'd come to disaster. "Not exactly."

Her chuckle was bemused, and she shook her head. "I do not understand you, Gary Hobson. But if you are willing to help, perhaps you are the right person after all." 

"Are you sure?" He waited for her nod, then added, "Because if you still want me, I think maybe you should be the one to hang on to this." Gary lifted the globe and held it out to Morgelyn, who gasped.

"You found it? Where?"

"It was on the river bank."

She stared at him, not even looking at the globe as she took it in her hands. "You have a way home, and you still want to help? You'll stay?"

How could he do any less? At least she'd asked, unlike the paper. "I'll stay," he said with a shrug. As if he hung out in the fourteenth century every other day. As if he would know what to do with the thing anyway.

"Thank you, Gary. After everything, that you would--" She ducked her head for a moment, fingering the strands of metal that held up the crystal globe. "Thank you," she said again, squeezing his arm.

"Besides," he added with a grin as they both got to their feet, "You wouldn't want a real knight anyway. Clanking around in all that armor, making a racket? He'd wake up the neighbors."

Her face broke into a warm smile. "Fergus is the closest thing I have to a neighbor tonight, and he can sleep through anything. I once had to drag him inside during a storm. The hailstones were as big as my fist and the thunder was enough to summon the dead, but there he was, snoring in the middle of the pine clearing as though he hadn't a care in the world." She shook her head, eyes dancing. "It was all I could do to rouse him and get him inside before we were both pummeled to death. Speaking of which," she added as Gary tried to stretch, wincing instead when his shoulder and ribs protested the extra movement, "you have probably undone any good my ointment did you this afternoon, tramping about in the dark and then sitting on this cold floor." She moved to the shelves behind the table, leaving the crystal ball on one while she fetched the terra cotta jar of goop.

"Oh, no, I'm fine." Gary wasn't sure about a second round of the stuff, but she insisted.

"You will sleep better if you do, and when you wake up, you will be able to move." 

Gary grimaced. "Maybe I can just scare the dragons away, if I walk around with this stuff on."

The matter decided, at least as far as Morgelyn was concerned, she pressed the jar into his hands and started moving the benches back against the wall. "We can bring the extra bed out here for you, if you think it is big enough, and you can sleep by the fire. The nights can still get cold, even now at midsummer, and you might have caught a chill in the river."

Unsure of the propriety of any of this, Gary moved to help her, even as he stammered, "Well, I, I can sleep outside, with Fergus, there."

Morgelyn snorted. "No one can sleep anywhere near him, not the way he snores." She regarded Gary thoughtfully for a moment.

"What?"

"You are a trusting soul, Gary Hobson."

He shrugged, grinning. "You've never let me down before."

  


* * *

  


_This is the Hour of Lead--  
Remembered, if outlived,  
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow--  
First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go_  
~Emily Dickinson

Marissa sat on the couch, a cat curled contentedly in her lap and a large, warm dog's head on her knees. She tapped the headset impatiently as the phone on the other end of line rang once, twice, three times. The answering machine clicked on and the familiar voice breezed in her ear. She bit her lip, realizing that she didn't even know where to start leaving a message about this. 

Drawing in a deep breath against the beep of the machine, obnoxious and loud as its owner, she decided just to say enough to elicit a return call.

"Chuck? This is Marissa. Would you call me as soon as--"

"Marissa?" His startled voice and the click that followed indicated he'd picked up the phone, and she heaved a sigh, whether of relief or trepidation, she couldn't have said. "I'm here. Let me turn this off."

Spike lay down on the floor, and she scooted Cat toward her knees so she could sit up straighter. She sent up a quick prayer for the right words. "It's Gary."

"Wait, Marissa--" 

The note of weary resignation in his voice surprised her, but she didn't pause to ask. If she stopped now, she wasn't sure she could get it all out, say it all out loud, make any of it real. So she didn't give him a chance to interrupt. "Just listen, okay? It's a long story, but I need to tell you all of it."

She began at the beginning, so far as she knew the beginning: Kelyn Gillespie walking into McGinty's. Continuing as quickly as she could, she ran through everything that had happened in the past twelve hours or so. How could everything change in less than half a day? There was no choice but to rush. If she didn't, her voice would break and the dam would crack open, and that couldn't happen, not now, when she had to make Chuck hear all of it, including the ending. He tried to stop her a couple of times, but she rolled right over his weak protests. She could hear him moving through his apartment, his feet shuffling, doors opening and closing, but she couldn't stop to wonder what he was doing.

"It all seemed so hopeless, but then Cat showed up in my apartment a few hours ago. He's here went right over to that crystal ball or globe or whatever it is and sat there mewing at me and pawing at it and I don't exactly know why, or what it means, but I think somehow Gary's alive, and he needs our help, because otherwise why would his cat be here and I need you. I need you to help me, to help Gary. Chuck, please, we have to find this girl. We have to figure out what's happened to Gary." Finally out of breath, out of words, out of everything but hope, she stopped. For the first time in her long recitation there was absolute silence on the other end of the phone. "Chuck?"

"I'm here."

Marissa hadn't talked to him in over a month, but she could remember Chuck's voice perfectly well. This didn't sound like him; he sounded different, somehow. Smaller. There was another silence. "Say something. Please."

"Look, Marissa." There was that weariness again. "Crumb called me about an hour ago."

Now she knew what she was hearing in his voice. She knew, and her heart sank under the knowledge. He believed what Crumb believed, what they all believed, what she herself had thought. "He doesn't know about it, not all of it. He wouldn't understand; he doesn't know what we know. Cat's here."

"I heard you." Before she could respond, he continued, "I'm coming out there. I was packing for the airport when you called. I'll be there in the morning." 

Numb. He sounded utterly numb. Didn't he understand?

"I know I should have called you first, but it was all so--Chuck, you need to believe--" I need you to believe, she pleaded silently. "This isn't over. Gary needs us."

"I gotta go or I'll miss my flight. I'll be there as soon as I can. Bye, Marissa."

He didn't give her a chance to say good-bye. Cat sat up in her lap and pawed the hand that still held the phone, finally circling and purring deep in its throat when she replaced the receiver in its cradle on the end table. Spike scooted onto her feet with a heavy doggie sigh.

Marissa absently stroked Cat's head as she worried about Chuck, about Gary, about what to tell Crumb, about all of it. She knew Gary was alive. She wasn't sure how, but she knew it, a conclusion she'd come to after spending the past long hour thinking, praying, listening to an enigmatic cat pace her living room and toy with the thing that seemed to be the cause of all this. It had taken more strength than she thought she had left to call Chuck and tell him that story, and it hadn't worked. It was her own fault for not getting to Chuck before Crumb had. Not that she could blame either one of them for what they thought. When Chuck was back here, back home, it would be easier to convince him. "We'll make Chuck believe," she whispered. "We have to help Gary."

One more purr vibrated in Cat's throat before he relaxed into a deep sleep. Resting her forehead on her hand, Marissa let slip a few of the tears she'd kept bottled up for so long, then brushed them angrily away.

This wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

  


* * *

  


Chuck heaved a sigh as he locked his apartment door. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He'd promised Gary that he'd go home if he was needed. He'd said, "I've got your back."

And now he was returning to Chicago for a funeral. Not because of some overblown heroics, but because of a stupid accident, probably a slip on uneven cement.

He hefted the strap of his carry-on to his shoulder, wishing it could have been a duffel crammed with jeans and sweaters, instead of the garment bag with his best suit. He hoped he hadn't forgotten anything. Crumb's call had hit him broadside in the middle of _Jeopardy_. No warning, no time to prepare or to worry about what Gary had gotten himself into this time. It was just over.

No matter what Marissa thought. Poor kid. Crumb had said she wasn't taking it well, and her babbling on the phone like that was completely out of character. He hurried down the outside stairs and toward his Lexus, parked under a palm tree at the back of the lot. 

It wasn't that he blamed Marissa. It must have been horrible, being there when it happened and not being able to do anything Still, to deny it all now because a stray cat showed up in her living room? She must really be grasping at straws. Looked like Chuck was going to have to be the strong one this time. It was not a role he relished. 

Tossing the bag into the backseat, he started the Lexus and took off, headed for the freeway at a speed that allowed him to think about keeping the wheels on the road and little else. He'd still be able to make the red-eye if he didn't hit one of the mini-rush hours that seemed to occur here at the oddest times, day and night. Once upon a time, he'd thought he understood heavy traffic, but that had been before he'd moved to LA. He decided to rent a car once he got to O'Hare. It would actually be a pleasure to drive the Kennedy after the mess out here.

And unlike riding in a cab, driving would keep him from having to think too much. Couldn't have that, not now, not when Gary--

He wondered if they sold sleeping pills or Benedryl or something, at the airport. Otherwise it was gonna be a hell of a long flight.

There was the entrance ramp. Chuck pushed the accelerator even closer to the floor and concentrated on holding the Lexus around the curve onto the freeway, scanning for cops as he headed for LAX. He turned on the radio and cranked it; cracked a window open to sniff the late-night smog; used his cell phone to leave a message at the office so his secretary would know where he was.

Anything to keep from thinking


	5. Chapter 5

_Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild   
With a faery, hand in hand,   
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._  
~ William Butler Yeats 

When Cat mre-owed the next morning, there was a brief instant between heartbeats in which Gary didn't remember the previous day. As awareness crept up on him, he hoped it had been a dream. 

Then he knew it hadn't. 

He didn't even have to open his eyes. The ache in his muscles and the stiff cold in his bones, the scratch of rough cloth against his legs, the rustling straw beneath him--that kind of stuff never bothered him in his dreams. 

It wasn't a dream. It was real, and the damp nose licking his ear was his only connection to who he was and where he came from. 

That, and the paper. Where was the paper? 

His eyes shot open. Pushing himself up on the lumpy mattress with halting, stiff movements, Gary blinked into soft light streaming through shutter cracks. The fire had burned down to embers sometime during the night, and, except for Cat's purring, the cottage was quiet. 

"All right, all right, I'm up." He scanned the floor around him, then peeked under the wool blanket. Cat tried to crawl into his lap, but Gary pushed it back to onto the mattress. "It's a little late in the game for the buddy-buddy act, don't you think? Where is it?" Content in the still-warm bedding, Cat didn't even blink. 

"Good morrow." 

Running a hand over his face, Gary twisted around to face the speaker behind him. "Maris--?" But no, that was Morgelyn peeking around the curtain, the corners of her mouth lifted in a drowsy smile. Besides, he realized as his sluggish brain processed what he'd heard, Marissa had probably never said the word "morrow" in her life. 

"Did you sleep well?" 

"I guess so." Except for the fact that he was wearing itchy wool, needed a shower, and was, just by the way, hanging out in a time that didn't exist anymore. A whiskered, furry head butted against his hand. Cat was still here; that meant something important was happening. So where was the paper? 

Cat squeezed only a glint out of its sleepy eyes when Gary lifted its limp form off the bed and deposited it on the floor. He tore off the blankets, lifted the straw pallet. Still no paper. Maybe it was somewhere else in the cabin.

When Morgelyn cleared her throat, Gary found himself on his hands and knees, peering under the table for some sign of the _Chicago Sun-Times_. Or whatever the equivalent was in this time and place. He tottered unsteadily to his feet, still aching from his tumble down the waterfall. 

"Gary?" 

He threw the door open, shivering in the cool air that rushed into the cottage, and scanned the stone stoop and the surrounding garden. 

"What are you searching for?" 

Scratching the back of his neck, itchy from straw and stubble, he turned back into the cottage to face Morgelyn. Looking perplexed, she clutched a shawl or blanket or something around her shoulders, over a long white...nightgown? Dress? It was hard to tell. Clothes seemed a lot more interchangeable here. 

"M'paper," he mumbled. 

"It is where you left it last night." Edging past him to pull the shutters back against the wall, she gestured at the pile of Gary's things, folded neatly atop one of the chests. 

"No, today's, tomorrow's. The one I'm supposed to get today that tells me what's going to happen, the one everyone else gets tomorrow." 

"Oh!" Morgelyn's eyes widened, and she too looked around the room. With a tiny shrug, she reached back to weave her hair into a thick braid. "Perhaps it is not supposed to come to you here. It would certainly be out of place." 

Grumbling under his breath about "supposed to"s, Gary folded the blankets into haphazard lumps. He kept his eyes open for the paper while he hauled the pallet back onto the spare bed, but it simply was not there. 

Morgelyn tied off her braid with a ribbon from a nearby shelf, then patted Gary's arm as she passed. "You look so lost." 

He threw up his hands. "That's because I don't know what I'm supposed to do! How can I help if I don't have it?" After all, he thought bleakly, without that paper he was just another guy. Surely whatever or whoever had the power to bring someone so far from home wasn't looking for just another guy. 

"You are hardly awake. Let the day start itself before you try to save it." 

It was true that Gary had never been a morning person. But damn it, he did need to know where his paper was. What if someone else had it? Worse yet, what if they didn't? What would his friends think if, with Gary missing, it didn't come to one of them? He heaved a resigned sigh. "You got any coffee?" 

Morgelyn shook her head, her expression perplexed as she disappeared behind the curtain. "I will make breakfast. Give me a moment to dress." 

A moment was all it took. She reemerged in seconds, tying the laces of the same green overdress she'd worn the day before. He checked his clothes, his real clothes, relieved to find them dry. He headed for the curtained room to change, but Morgelyn blocked the way. 

"'Twould be better if you kept those out of sight. Especially the--the--" She waved her hand at the top of the pile. 

"The jacket?" He patted his leather bomber. It kept him so warm, and the early summer here was colder than the Chicago fall he'd left behind. Besides, it had plenty of room for the paper and made him look good to boot. 

"Jacket. Yes. Metal fastenings like that are unheard of here." Morgelyn reached over and fingered the zipper teeth. "How does it work?" 

He showed her, and let out a surprised chuckle when she took it to the table and sat, fascinated with pulling it open and closed. 

"C'mon, it's just a zipper. What's the big deal?" 

"A zipper?" She echoed, still absorbed with the jacket. "It is very interesting, the way you talk." 

"I should ask you about that." Gary set the rest of his clothes on the table and sat down next to her. "Have you really tried to listen to what's going on here? Because I have, and when I really listen to you and me--" He waved his hand between the two of them. "This might sound nuts, but I don't think we're speaking the same language." 

Morgelyn's hands stilled. "Probably not," she said evenly, but from the way her forehead crinkled up, Gary could tell she was doing the same thing he had the night before: trying to listen, and finding his actual words incomprehensible. "I can speak and read several languages, but I never saw words like those in your newspaper." 

"And that's the only language I know. So what the heck is going on?" 

She raised her eyebrows at that. "I must admit, some of your words confuse me. Sometimes, though I understand them, you put them together oddly." With a little sigh, she handed him his jacket and stood. "I know not how we comprehend each other, but I suppose, since you are here at all, there must be a reason for this as well." 

Oh, yeah, like he hadn't heard that one before. "Just once, I'd like to know what the reason is." 

"My grandmother would have said that the reasons for a gift are not as important as what we do with it." Morgelyn moved to the shelves and reached for a bag of oats. "At any rate, we need to go into the village today. You will no doubt cause a stir no matter what you wear. If you are dressed so unusually, there is no telling what people will think or do." 

"Why would I cause a stir?" 

"Your height, for one thing." 

Gary frowned at her. Sure, she was tiny--the same size as Marissa, who, without her heels, didn't even reach his shoulder--but that didn't mean _he_ was so out of line, did it? And if he was, just for being tall, then what about the fact that she was African-American? 

No, wait, that wasn't the right term, not here, not now. Every moment he spent here left him more confused. 

Morgelyn scooped meal into the kettle, oblivious to Gary's inner wranglings. "More important is the simple fact that no one in town will know you. At one time strangers were welcomed here, but things have changed in recent years." A shadow crossed her face, but before Gary could ask why, a new voice startled them both. 

"The lady is correct, as always." Like some demented puppet, Fergus grinned at them through the open window. "The less attention you draw to yourself, the better." He cocked his head and pointed at the kettle. "Breakfast?" he asked hopefully. 

"Not until I make it." Morgelyn tied on an apron. "Go, check your lines. Perhaps we can have trout along with the porridge." 

Fish for breakfast wasn't unheard of; Gary had eaten it once or twice before on camping trips with his dad. But it wasn't exactly Au Bon Pain, either. No coffee, no shower--how was a guy supposed to wake up around here, anyway? 

As if she'd read his mind, Morgelyn added, "Take Gary with you." She pushed a small knife in a leather sheath into Gary's hand and nudged him toward the door. "I daresay he'd like to clean up and shave the shadows off his chin." 

"Uh, yeah, thanks." Appearances or not, Gary's feet were still feeling abused from all the rock clambering he'd done the night before. He snagged his boots and socks from the pile on the table. 

Fergus drummed his impatience on the window sill. "Come along, my good man. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can return and dine." 

Grunting at the effort it took to bend over and tie his boots, Gary pushed himself off the bench. "Okay, okay." 

"Okay." Morgelyn tilted her head, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. "Agreement?" 

"Yeah," Gary told her, managing a grin as he headed out the door. He looked back at Cat, but it was curled up by the fire. Gary had a flashback to _Wild Kingdom_ ; he was Jim, sent to wrestle with dangerous creatures while Marlin, aka Cat, watched from the sidelines. Or, in this case, dozed. 

"You cannot talk like he does in Gwenyllan. I mean it, Morgelyn," Fergus chided. 

"Okay!" she retorted from inside the house. 

Gary fell into step with Fergus, inhaling the sharp, fresh tang of the air, and listening for the sound of the ocean. The day was dawning behind them; the rising sun cast their shadows into the thin mist on the forest floor. "What's the big deal?" he asked the peddler. "I mean, why do you care how she talks in the village? And why do both of you care so much about what I wear?" 

"The large deal, my friend--" 

"Big. Big deal." 

Fergus harrumphed and flashed Gary a dark look. "The problem is that you are far more different than you seem to realize. I know nothing of your own time and place, but here and now, being different can lead to a big deal of trouble." 

That was another thing that he'd been wondering about. "Speaking of that--" Gary faltered, his steps slowing. This wasn't going to be the most tactful question he'd ever asked, and he had no idea what was politically correct around here. "Isn't she kind of out of place, too?" 

"Morgelyn?" 

"Yeah. I don't know much about history, but, uh, wasn't it--I mean, isn't it kind of unusual for someone who's--" 

"Unwed? Female? Literate?" The wry twist of Fergus's mouth said that he'd already read Gary's mind; these were the least of Morgelyn's differences. He kept up a brisk pace, and Gary had to hurry to catch up with him. 

"Look, it's just that I didn't even know that there were people from Africa living in England back--uh, right now." 

Fergus shook his head ruefully. "I knew we would get around to this sooner or later. To tell the truth, I am surprised you did not ask yesterday." 

"There were too many other questions, I guess." Gary jumped when a starling swept across the path, just inches from their faces. "So how'd she get from Africa to Cornwall?" 

"That, my friend, is the crux of the matter. Morgelyn is not from Africa. She was actually born on a ship in the Irish Sea. I believe her arrival was somewhat unexpected. Her parents were on something of a wedding trip, running gold from Ise in Nigeria up to Edinburgh with part of her grandfather's fleet, but the trip took longer than they'd planned." 

Fergus told the story with relish, waving his arm as he spoke. One of the branches he swept out of the way brushed back across Gary's face. 

"Long before all this happened, her grandparents had spent many stormy winters in Ireland and up and down the English coast. Eventually they settled here. There was a wise woman who befriended them, and Amalia, Morgelyn's grandmother, adopted this land as her own. So 'twas here she raised her daughter, when she could keep the young woman off the ships, and her granddaughter as well." He stopped to scratch his calf--still in tights, Gary noted, though today's were a bright yellow. "Morgelyn is as much a part of this country as any villager; her name, her language, and her ways are all Cornish." 

"So her parents just left her with her grandmother?" 

"They both died when she was young." Fergus gave his head a sharp shake, as if to say that this particular matter was closed to discussion, and started walking again. 

He could take a hint. "So it really doesn't matter to anyone here that Morgelyn's different?" 

There was a split-second of hesitation before Fergus said, "By rights, no, it should not matter. She's accepted because her family has been a part of the village for three generations. Cornwall is a seafaring country, and many of the villagers have traveled to the coastal towns; Polruan and even Plymouth." He flung one hand toward the river, and the other away from it; his voice became a tiny bit more strident, and Gary wondered if Fergus was trying to convince them both. "They have seen more than one person with dark skin, and of course her grandparents had an established reputation here, one they fought for and earned. But times have changed, with the coming of poor crops, and then pestilence. The tin mines that were once prosperous stand empty, and crops that once were plentiful have dwindled in our short, cold summers. There must be, as Amalia always said, a reason, but I fear they are looking in the wrong place for it. They are looking for someone to blame." 

A scapegoat, Gary thought. The mist was thicker, the dull roar of the falls louder, as they closed the distance to the river, and the green world around him didn't seem so pure anymore. "And you think it might be Morgelyn?" 

"I think it might be you." They emerged from the thicker forest to the river bank, and, once again, Gary felt every bruise and ache intensify when he saw the waterfall. He winced, but Fergus, intent on picking his way down the mossy slope of the bank, didn't notice. That didn't stop him from talking, though. "But if Morgelyn were to try to live anywhere else in Britain--a woman alone, a black woman who can read--'tis likely she'd be run off, possibly even killed." 

The words had been spoken offhandedly, but they stopped Gary in his tracks. He grabbed an overhanging branch as a thought struck him: did this have something to do with the save he'd made the morning before, those suburban kids fighting over the colors of their skin? Fergus went a few more steps ahead, then turned back. "This surprises you?" 

"Where I come from, most of the time it's no big deal." But it was to some people, even six hundred years in the future, even after the Emancipation Proclamation and the civil rights movement and Nelson Mandela, even after everything. 

"Difference is a very big deal." Fergus waggled his eyebrows, then motioned Gary down the bank. He held out a hand to help when Gary slid in the mud. "These are simple people. After everything that's happened, here and in the rest of the world, in the past few years, they are afraid, and they see the differences as cause for alarm. Sometimes they see it as a cause for the things that ail them, as if the presence of a stranger, or an unfamiliar cat, or even an oddly-shaped cloud, is a harbinger of doom." 

"Doom?" Gary asked warily. Fergus fell to hauling his fishing lines out of the river. 

"Death, pestilence, the failure of crops. I am sure that a man in your position understands that anything may happen in this uncertain world." 

"Yeah." Gary stared at the knife in his hand, wondering if he'd be able to shave without cutting off his nose. "Anything can happen. I'm starting to get that."  


* * *

  


_I told you, when rocks break, it happens by surprise.  
And people, too._  
~ Dahlia Ravikovitch 

The Taurus he'd rented lacked the power of his Lexus, but that didn't stop Chuck from weaving in and out of Chicago's morning rush hour with impunity. It wasn't that he was in a hurry. He just didn't want to dwell on anything right now. 

He was cruising down the Kennedy, nearly downtown, when he realized he didn't even know where he was going. Typical of him, to jump off the dock without testing the-- 

An unpleasant electric shock tickled his spine; he didn't want to think about water today. The last expressway exit deposited him in the thick of morning traffic, and before he could spend too much time pondering options, he headed for McGinty's. His experience with these situations had been limited to wakes for older relatives, but he remembered everyone gathering in living rooms, then drifting to the kitchens, seeking comfort in food and drink. And what was McGinty's, if not a great big comfortable kitchen? 

There was room to park in the alley, but he had to go around to the front to get in. Eleven in the morning and the back was locked up tight, the morning's deliveries still stacked next to the door. Chuck kicked an empty beer bottle as he left the alley; it shattered against the wall with a satisfying crash. He'd kept his key, but it was sitting in a drawer in his L.A. apartment. There was always the spare that Gary kept hidden in the lamp out front, just in case he got locked out after a save. 

Out front the "Closed" sign hung in the window. Chuck reached for the door, then drew his hand back. He turned to watch the L rattle by; he needed a second to gather his courage. 

This wasn't what he'd planned. For months now, he had imagined a triumphant return to home base, where his friends would cheer him on after he hit one out of the park out in L.A. But he had yet to find that kind of success, and if he ever did, that imagined homecoming wasn't going to happen. How could it, when one friend, his best friend, wouldn't be there? 

Whipping around to face the door, Chuck dislodged the thought. Better to be impulsive after all; brooding never solved anything. At least, that's what he'd always told Gary. Besides, if he didn't go in soon, he'd freeze. In the mad dash out of his apartment, he'd forgotten a coat. He hadn't worn one since he'd moved to LA. After so many years in Chicago, though, he should have remembered how cold October could be. 

He should have remembered a lot of things. 

This door was unlocked, so he didn't need to retrieve the spare key from its hiding place. He was wiping imaginary dirt off his shoes in the foyer when the sounds of a tense discussion stopped him in his tracks. 

"I told you, she didn't call. There were lots of messages, and I wrote them all down, but none from Miss Clark." Chuck didn't recognize the speaker, and he couldn't see anyone. They must have been at the other end of the bar. 

"Well, then where the hell is she?" Now that voice, he knew. Laden with an irritation that had been directed at Chuck more than once, Crumb's gravelly Chicago growl was unmistakable. 

He really didn't want to do this. Steeling himself for an emotional scene, Chuck clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe he'd open his eyes and Gary would be there, laughing at him. Maybe they'd planned this as some kind of wicked surprise party. Yeah, that was it. 

"Did she go back to the lake?" 

"I already checked there, Quinn." Crumb was nearly shouting. Somebody should really get in there before things turned ugly. 

Squaring his shoulders, Chuck pulled the door open and slipped into the dining room. 

Neither man noticed his entrance. The ex-cop paced in front of the bar, clad in a tan canvas windbreaker. Chuck didn't recognize the kid behind the bar. Sporting a headful of spiky blond exclamation points, he gaped at Crumb like a fish out of water. He must have been an employee, but instead of the casual McGinty's uniform, he wore blue jeans and a bulky crew-neck sweater that looked like something an overzealous aunt might have made for him. He was tall, probably taller than Gary. Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets, unable, for the moment, to get a greeting past the lump in his throat. 

In the seconds that it took the kid to find his voice, Chuck's gaze darted around the dining room. It was still the same McGinty's. Same polished walnut bar, same filtered morning light, same sounds of traffic and El trains, same tall table where he'd sat so many mornings drinking coffee out of those same cream-colored mugs. Crumb's coffee was probably the same bitter sludge. But there was a hollowness in the sounds, an edge to the light, a cutting sharpness to the scent of the coffee, that he'd never noticed before. 

"Where would she go?" the young man asked nervously. 

"That's what I'm asking you!" Crumb threw up his hands, scowling a hole into his forehead. "What, am I talking to myself here?" 

Twisting a bar towel in his hands, the kid stammered, "It's just--I--I don't know, Mr. Crumb--" 

Chuck couldn't take it anymore. "Not that anyone's asked me, but I don't know, either." 

Crumb spun around. "Fishman." He looked just as uncomfortable as Chuck felt, but he drew closer and extended his hand. "Thanks for coming." 

Tongue-tied by the strangeness of being thanked, as if he was doing Crumb some kind of favor by showing up, Chuck accepted the handshake. Both men stared down, realizing--or at least Chuck did--that they'd never done that before. He released Crumb's hand with a gulp. 

"I didn't know where else to go." Nervously scanning the sterile, quiet bar, Chuck caught himself calculating money how much they'd lose by staying closed today. But it wasn't his business anymore, was it? A sigh came from the soles of his feet, and he shrugged. "This is the only place in Chicago that's really home anymore." 

"Mr. Fishman?" The young man behind the bar spoke up, relieving Chuck of the full weight of Crumb's ponderous assessment. With eyes the size of superballs over a beak of a nose, the kid reminded Chuck of an emu. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I know Mr. Hobson would have--it would have meant a lot to him that you came back." Following a wave of his towel, Chuck was surprised to see a framed photograph of himself and Gary, caught mid-laugh, hanging behind the bar. His chest tightened as if he'd been punched, and he found himself gasping for air. He'd have to be careful here, very careful, or he'd end up in a puddle on the floor. 

When he finally caught his breath, both men were staring at him. It was too hard to look Crumb in the eye right now; he was already sizing Chuck up like the ex-detective he was. So Chuck turned to the kid. "Thanks, uh--" 

"I'm Patrick." He wiped his hands with the towel and held one out to Chuck. "Patrick Quinn." 

"He bartends for us, does a good job, too." 

Shaking the kid's still-damp hand, Chuck didn't miss the surprised glance Patrick turned on Crumb. Good to know the old grouch was still inflicting his charm on everyone around him. Apparently shocked into silence, Patrick stared from one man to the other. No one, it seemed, knew how to broach the subject that was on all their minds. 

"So." Chuck traced the top of a barstool, pretending fascination with the whorl of its wood-grained back. "What's--uh, what's going on?" 

"They're still dragging the lake." Crumb finally looked away, studying the dark recesses of the dining area. "Nothing yet." 

"When do you think--" Chuck swallowed. He just couldn't say it. 

"I don't know." 

Nodding, Chuck bit his lip and stared at his shoes, realizing for the first time that he was wearing one black Italian loafer and one brown topsider. Well, shit. 

He looked back up at the photo, and was overcome with the need for a drink. A very stiff drink. Stumbling through the thick silence, he pushed past Crumb to get behind the bar. The best Scotch was still under the counter, to the left of the gin. The tumblers were on the same shelf. Everything was the same. 

Except that Gary wasn't going to come running in after a save, out of breath or smelling like smoke or cranky or drenched or hungry or anything. Still dry from the plane, Chuck's throat burned when the first shot went down. He poured three more fingers and left the bottle open on the counter. 

Patrick shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, watching silently. Crumb cleared his throat. "Hobson's parents are down at the lake now, if you want to go there." 

Oh, no. Not Bernie and Lois, no way. He shook his head so hard his teeth rattled, then gulped more Scotch. "I don't see the point." 

"Then you can help me." Crumb pulled car keys out of the pocket of his jacket. "I need to find Marissa." 

The tumbler froze halfway to his lips. "What do you mean, find Marissa? Where'd she go?" 

"Hell, Fishman, if I knew that, I wouldn't need to find her, would I?" 

"Why would she disappear at a time like this?" Chuck met Crumb's steely gaze and winced. The Scotch was doing a number on his empty stomach, and that, no doubt, was why it was churning. He glanced over at Patrick, whose eyes were, impossibly, wider and more worried than ever. 

"Alls I know is, she isn't at home, she isn't at the lake, she's not here, and nobody's seen her today, not her family in town or her friends, at least the ones I know about. And the way she was acting last night, I'm not sure this has really hit her yet." Fidgeting with his keys, Crumb muttered, "She's not herself, Fishman. It's like she can't even take it all in." 

"Maybe she needs some time alone." Chuck couldn't say the same for himself. He'd had more than enough time to think since Crumb's phone call had yanked the bottom out of his world. Right now he wanted people, and something to do, but with Marissa, he never knew. 

"Near as I can figure, she had that all night last night, unless she went somewhere after the last time I talked to her." 

There was something wrong with the scotch. He wasn't numb enough yet, if the memory of those calls could still sting. "She called me a little after you did." 

Eyes narrowed, Crumb closed in on him. "What'd she say?" 

"Wanted to tell me about Gary." Had that been all? He hadn't listened very closely. Through the fog of exhaustion and shock, Chuck frowned, wondering if all Marissa's jabbering about the paper, the cat, and oh, yeah, by the way, Gary, had been about something more. But what more could there be? Blinking down at his glass, he was surprised to find it empty. He reached for the bottle again, but Crumb covered the rim of his glass with a meaty palm. Defiant, Chuck glared at the older man and yanked the glass out from under his hand. Crumb stabbed a finger in his face. 

"You'd better get something straight, Fishman. You have a job to do here." He pulled the finger back, keeping Chuck pinned with his glower. "I know you're hurting. Believe it or not, I've been here a time or two. But this is no time to go crawling into a bottle. There are people here who need you." 

Who did he think he was kidding? Gary didn't need anyone at this point, and Chuck was the last person in the world Marissa would ever need. "You're the one who needs to get something straight." The bottle spun when he slammed it back down on the counter, and some of the Scotch splashed onto his hand. "You have no idea what this feels like. Nobody does. Gary was my best friend. I know you think I bailed on him, but that guy was--he was--" He couldn't even find the words. 

He didn't have to. "Uh, sir? Mr. Fishman?" 

"What?" Crumb barked. 

The younger bartender pointed out the front window. Through the mottled glass, they could see two figures, one human, one canine, exiting a cab. 

"Thank God." Crumb hurried to the front door, while Chuck poured and gulped another shaky shot. There was a brief, quiet conversation in the foyer before Crumb, Marissa, and Spike entered the main room. Chuck sucked in another breath for courage and headed toward them, but Patrick got there first. 

"Miss Clark--" Patrick reached out for her arm, but then faltered, his hand suspended in mid-air. Now, instead of an emu, he seemed like a lost puppy. 

"Patrick? What are you doing here?" Her hair was shorter, the dozens of tiny braids gone, but Marissa's voice was still--well, still Marissa's. Chuck didn't know what he'd expected. 

"I didn't know what to do. Mr. Hobson was a good boss, and I want to help." 

"I understand, Patrick. Thank you." 

The kid looked as if he wanted to tell her something else, but he locked eyes with Crumb, and spoke to him instead. "The deliveries are out in the alley. I'll take care of them if you want." 

"Good idea," Crumb said. Nodding, Patrick stared at Marissa for another moment. He turned abruptly, blinking furiously at the floor all the way to the kitchen. 

Chuck wished that he, too, could escape Crumb's intense, prompting gaze. He knew that he was supposed to make a move; trouble was, he had no idea what that should be. Gary would have known, he thought bleakly. By the time he found the wherewithal to speak, Marissa had shrugged off her coat and draped it over one of the bar stools. Chuck took a couple of steps closer and was greeted by Spike's familiar growl. 

"Good to see somebody still remembers me." 

Marissa gasped. "Chuck? It's really you?" She held out her hand and he reached for it, but this, too, was unprecedented. Should they shake, or what? Marissa settled the matter, pulling him close enough to give him a quick hug. Despite what Crumb had said, she seemed to be more in control of herself than anyone else. "It's all right, Chuck," she whispered. "I promise, it's all right." 

Something about the way she said it, some note in her voice that he didn't understand, sent chills up and down his spine. He pulled away, and his stomach tightened into a knot. Marissa was--God, she looked--well, not happy. She was clearly too tired for that, the lines around her mouth deeper than he'd remembered. But there was some kind of a light, a spark on her face that Chuck didn't understand, not in these circumstances, and it frightened him. 

So he stalled. 

"Your hair's different. It's really fluffy." 

"Fluffy? Oh, Chuck." Her shoulders slumping a little, Marissa took a step back. Crumb's nervous cough sounded like a sharp crack of thunder. 

Okay, so, no stalling. "What happened?" His throat was tight, but this time Chuck forced the words out. "To Gary, I mean. How did he--what happened?" 

A shadow crossed her face. "I don't know. But I need to talk to you, because it's not what everyone else thinks." 

How could it not be? Chuck shot a helpless glance at Crumb, who looked just as worried as Chuck felt. Tears and grief would have been easier than this. 

"There are things we need to do today," Marissa continued, almost as if they were discussing a grocery-shopping excursion. Chuck, however, was close enough to see her hands tremble when she pulled her cane out of the bag she'd stowed on a bar stool. 

"C'mon, take it easy." He put a hand to her elbow and steered her toward the nearest table. "Sit down, okay? You can't handle things this way." 

She shrugged his hand away, and her voice shot up the scale. "Don't tell me what I can't handle. You don't even know what's going on." 

The tension between them was crackling, electric, and there was no Gary to ground them. It would have turned into a doozy of an argument, but Crumb wasn't finished bullying everyone around. "For once, the little guy's right." He joined the pair at the table and pulled out a chair. "Sit down. Why don't you tell us what you've been up to? Where'd you go this morning?" 

Her jaw tightened. "Crumb, I don't want--" 

"Sit." One hand on her shoulder, he pushed her into the chair, though not, Chuck noted, ungently. "Coffee's brewing in the kitchen. I'll go get some." 

Marissa slumped back into the chair and snapped her fingers at the floor. "Sit, Spike." The guide dog settled himself at her feet. Crumb headed for the kitchen, but not before he waved Chuck to another chair at the table. 

What was he supposed to do now? The peanuts he'd had on the flight were jitterbugging through the scotch in his gut, and he couldn't think of the first thing to say to her. 

Apparently the feeling was mutual. Marissa barely masked her impatience with the whole situation when she asked, "How are things in California?" 

Her pathetic attempt at small talk cut through the fog and fear that had kept his ravaged emotions at bay. "What the hell difference does that make?" He whacked his palm on the table. "Gary's gone, and I want to know what happened!" 

"Good." Pushing back from the table, Marissa practically jumped out of her chair. She reached into her bag, pulled out her cane and snapped it open with a flick of her wrist. "Come with me." She started for the office with Spike at her heels. 

"Whoa." He followed, stumbling into a table. Marissa didn't seem to notice; she certainly didn't slow down. "What are you doing?" 

"Please, Chuck, I know you're confused, but there's something we have to find. We may be running out of time," she insisted, calling the words over her shoulder. Spike trotted alongside, still wearing his harness. He couldn't remember Marissa ever neglecting her dog like that. 

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to play along. He followed her into the office, where she promptly began patting the top of Gary's desk. He just managed to catch a pile of unopened mail that toppled over the edge. "Take it easy, let me look." 

Stiff as a board, Marissa froze, then lifted her hands and took a couple steps back. Her brow crinkled into deep furrows. 

Chucked looked from her to the usual jumble on Gary's desk. "What are we looking for?" 

"A letter, an old letter. I don't know if Gary left it here, or if he had it with him when--when he left yesterday." She twisted her palms around the handle of her cane. "It would be addressed to Lucius Snow." 

"Snow?" Chuck gulped. He'd tried so hard to forget the creepier aspects of his best friend's life. "Oh, c'mon." 

"We need that letter." 

For now, it seemed the better part of valor to play along. He scanned the contents of the desk, lifted a few piles, shook the ledger that lay open underneath a couple day's worth of junk mail. "I don't see anything like that here." 

Pressing her lips together, Marissa turned and started up the steps to the loft. Her movements were stiff and purposeful, her thick heels clomping on the wooden steps like the echoes of doom. Spike followed with a quiet whine. Chuck dropped the mail and followed, concern vying with exasperation as he tried to figure her out. Maybe what Crumb had said about her odd behavior was more than just overprotective ex-cop paranoia. 

"God, will you just _tell_ me?" he demanded when they reached the landing. She traced her cane in wide arcs before the door. Acid and scotch burned up from his gut. "There's no paper. Let's go back down." 

But she reached for the doorknob. "He stayed out of the bar for a while after that Gillespie girl left. He could have come up here." 

"What Gillespie girl?" 

Without answering, Marissa opened the unlocked door to the loft and walked in. Chuck stopped just inside, frozen by a rush of memories and fresh loss. 

Marissa made for the coffee table, perching on the edge of the sofa while she groped piles of newspapers, mail, and pristine TV Guides; pristine because Gary never had time to watch the television that sat on the metal shelves near the windows. Inching forward, Chuck swallowed another wave of nausea. 

"Do you see it? Is it here?" Marissa waited, her palms resting flat on David Duchovny's face, but Chuck couldn't find his voice. "Chuck? What is it, what's wrong?" 

"I don't think this is a good idea," he finally whispered. "I really don't want to be here." 

"But Chuck--" 

"You don't know what it's like. I can see all Gary's stuff, and it's like he just left and he'll be back any minute. I can't handle this." 

She drew in a deep breath, then sat back, reaching up to finger the fringe of the Navaho blanket that was draped over the sofa. "You think this isn't difficult for me?" For the first time, he heard a catch of sorrow in her voice. "I know it hurts, but that's why we have to be here. You have to help me." 

"Help you do what? Marissa, there's nothing--" His knees turning to Jell-O, he too sank down on the sofa. "There's nothing either of us can do." 

"No." She stuck out her chin, so deep in denial that they'd need a tow truck to get her out. Fear turned the jitterbugs in his stomach into a frenzied bunch of whirling dervishes. Sad Marissa, even angry Marissa, he could find a way to handle. But not crazy Marissa, who said, "There's too much we need to do. I know you weren't ready to listen to me last night, but now you have to." 

He fought the urge to kick the coffee table, settled for twisting his heel into the rug. "The only thing I want to listen to right now is an explanation of how my best friend, who knew about everyone else's catastrophes before they happened and managed to stop them, didn't know about his own. How'd Gar miss this one?" 

"He didn't, not exactly." Marissa drew back her shoulders so that she was sitting perfectly straight as she faced him. Once again, her expression lit with that strange hope. "Chuck, I think Gary's alive."  


* * *

  
_Now I am in Arden; the more fool I._  
~ As You Like It, II.iv 

The footpath into town wound along the river in the opposite direction from the one Gary had taken the night before. Rocky steps, difficult to navigate now that Fergus had insisted Gary change his own boots for the old-fashioned ones, led to the top of the waterfall, where the land leveled out. The sun's rays were just beginning to burn away the mist that rose from the river, curling off the boulders like smoke. Gary's shoulder throbbed in time with the rushing water, and the panic he'd felt while tumbling through it nearly returned. 

What would his friends be thinking at this point? And his parents?

If the story in the _Sun-Times_ was the real thing, they would be frantic by now, unless they'd already resigned themselves, but there was nothing he could do about it at this point. His best hope was that time here moved differently than his own, as it had when he had spent a couple of days in October, 1871. Or had that been a dream? He had never been sure. At the moment, all Gary knew was that this experience, the same and yet so different, couldn't be a dream. His ribs hurt too much for that. 

Of course, it had hurt like hell when Sullivan's men had beat him up, too. 

Shaking his head, Gary told himself that there was no point in worrying about any of that right now. Here was where he was, and what he had to change was here somewhere. He had to trust that when he'd changed it, there would be a way to get back where he belonged, preferably a way that didn't hurt as much as the arrival had. 

He blinked back to the present, where the river's track, and their own path, had flattened out. Gary grinned as he took in the scene in front of him. There was plenty here to distract him from the deeper weirdness. Striding just ahead of him, Morgelyn and Fergus were engaged in another round of cheerful bickering. Her long brown cape and his short red one billowed like sails at their animated gestures. Fergus had his pack, a rough canvas bag that bumped and bulged with the wares he sold, slung over one shoulder. He also wore the hat that he'd had on yesterday, ostrich feather and all. Chuck had always been a hat kinda guy, but Gary had a feeling he would have drawn the line at that red beret. But he would have approved of this guy's sales initiative. 

"That is ridiculous, Fergus." Morgelyn gave her head a vigorous shake that whipped her braid from side to side. "No one is going to believe that you have holy relics to sell!" 

"I tell you, I have a bone from the foot of St. Patrick himself." 

"If it was the real thing it would have walked away from you as fast as it could." 

Fergus put a hand to his chest. "You wound me." 

"Not as much as Father Ezekial will if he finds you selling blasphemies." 

"I'll have you know--" 

"Oh, campion!" Her tone shifting from exasperation to delight, Morgelyn crouched to touch the dark pink petals of some wildflowers. They all looked like weeds to Gary, but then again his mom had fired him from gardening chores when he'd mistakenly pulled up all her peas one July. Morgelyn was greeting the plants as if they were old friends. 

Fergus rolled his eyes. "You are hopeless." 

"But it has been a year since there's been any, and buttercups, oh, look!" She veered toward a patch of yellow blooming at the edge of the river. Moving more slowly here, the water snaked out of the forest ahead. "You see, Fergus," Morgelyn said as she snapped a sprig of the creamy yellow flowers, "it really is summer at last." Standing on tiptoe, she tucked the flowers into her friend's hatband, winking at Gary before they all started off again. 

Soon the path turned away from the river and into deeper shade. Competing for sunlight and space, the trees were skinnier and taller here, and the undergrowth crowded the path. Lush and cool and full of green life, the forest was a living thing with a language all its own. Morgelyn gave every indication of being able to read it; she reached for vines and flowers to check their progress, and even broke off leaves to chew. 

Fergus stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "How is it that a few blossoms can make you this happy, when things are far enough amiss that you were able to send for him?" 

"I am happy because he is here." Turning to walk backward, Morgelyn smiled at Gary and held out a dull green, saw-toothed edged leaf. "He said he would help. Here, chew this. It is good for the blood." 

"I could do a better job if I knew what the problem is," Gary pointed out, not for the first time. He pulled in his cheeks when his first bite of the leaf set off a sour explosion in his mouth. 

"I, too, would like to hear what you think he can do." Fergus's smug air said he thought perhaps there was no good answer to the question. 

Gary swallowed the leaf, hoping he hadn't just been poisoned. 

"I did not understand what a dragon slayer was going to do to save the village in the first place," Fergus went on, "seeing as there are no dragons. Now that you have the wrong hero, what do you think he will do?" 

"He is not the wrong hero." Morgelyn stopped, one hand on her hip, to scowl at Fergus. Gary could barely make out her expression in the green-tinged shadows, but he knew that face well enough. "He is here for a reason." 

Shaking off the chill that ran up his spine, Gary asked, "When do you plan to tell me what that reason is?" He really didn't want to stick around here any longer than he had to. 

The scowl faded, but she just turned and started off again. "I want you to see the town for yourself." 

Fergus snorted. "That is hardly an answer." 

Morgelyn let him get ahead of her and fell into step with Gary. "Our village, Gwenyllan, has been here for hundreds of years. It used to be a mining town, and before that, no one really seems to know what it was. Just a trading center at the edge of the moor, I suppose, since the river is too narrow here to be a usable harbor. We are fortunate in that we are a free village. Many of the settlements and towns here are the property of English lords." 

"And ladies." Fergus flashed a wicked grin over his shoulder. 

"And ladies," Morgelyn acknowledged. "Over on the moor, Lady Nessa has had the running of her husband's estate since she was left a widow. The people who live in her village, and many others, are bound to the manors as serfs." 

A vague memory of history class surfaced. "Like slaves?" Immediately sorry he'd said it, Gary gave Morgelyn an apologetic look, but she seemed unaffected. That's right, he thought, that particular horror was at least a hundred years away, maybe more. Thank God. 

"Oh, they are free, in law at least, but only up to a point." Fergus had picked up a thick branch and was using it as a walking stick; its leaves stuck out from top to bottom and made him look like a walking tree. "Not to the point of, say, ever being able to leave, or to own the fruits of their labors." 

"Everything they grow goes to the lord of the manor," Morgelyn explained. "Everything but enough to keep them alive, and working his land. 'Tis the same everywhere. Only a few towns have been granted charters by the king guaranteeing their freedom. Gwenyllan is been lucky to have such a charter. The people who live in servitude to the landholders suffer terribly and--" 

The leaves on Fergus's stick rustled as he waggled it back at Morgelyn. "A wise teacher of mine, a bard from Ireland, once told me that I would lose my audience if I lost the point of my story." 

"I was the one who told you that," Morgelyn snapped. "And I am getting to the point, but how can I explain it if he doesn't know the whole story?" 

"Oh, the whole story? Perhaps you should start with Adam and Eve." 

"You are impossible," she sighed, brushing the leaves of his branch out of her face. "Put that thing down before you hurt someone." 

"It is a staff for protection, m'lady. Yours as well as mine." 

"Against what?" Gary looked around nervously, wondering if wolves or bears were about to come bursting out from the underbrush. 

Fergus's grin broadened; he held his staff out like a sword. "Badgers and dragons." 

"Put it down," Morgelyn insisted, and pushed it away. "Here we are." 

They'd come back to the river, or rather, it had looped back to them. The path led across a stone bridge that had no railing, just slightly raised ridges along each edge. The road widened as it wound down a mild slope and into the town. 

After they'd crossed the bridge, the trees thinned out. Staggered cottages and huts lined their path as they neared the village; those on the left were half-hidden in trees, but those on the right fronted gardens and, as they neared the village, small farms that sloped up to a purple-dotted grassland. Wheat and barley and rye, Morgelyn pointed out to him from the bridge, just pushing up in gold and green carpets. Gary could see men working in the fields, and oxen and cows grazing in pens. Ahead there were bigger houses, even a few with two stories, crowded in a rough circle at the center of the village. Like the hub of a bicycle wheel, a large well stood in the clearing; short lanes, three or four houses deep, formed its spokes. Directly across from Gary, on the other side of the circle, the land rose again, and at the crest of the hill was a steepled church that seemed to watch over the collection of huts and houses like a mother hovering over a baby's crib. 

Two hundred souls, Morgelyn had said the night before, but this place looked as if it was designed to hold two or three times that many. However many people had lived here once, many of them seemed to be gone now. Shutters, where they existed, were loose, doors hung on single hinges, weeds choked the house-paths, and some of the walls were crumbling away. The trio passed no one on the path that lead to the heart of the village, though a couple of chickens did watch them from an enclosure near one of the houses. 

"Where'd everyone go?" Gary kept his voice hushed. Fergus and Morgelyn exchanged a cryptic glance, but neither one answered his question. Instead, Fergus turned and pointed a short finger at Gary's nose. 

"Remember what I told you. No introducing yourself, nothing about where you come from, and for the love of heaven, speak as little as possible." 

"Yeah." Gary shrugged. He was hesitant to make any promises, but it wasn't as if he'd know what to say, anyway. 

After the confines of the forest, the direct sun and blue sky of the village proper were intensely bright, but their warmth was welcome. Morgelyn tossed her cape back over her shoulders. A strange, odorous brew of wood smoke, baking bread, and the lack of a sewer system assailed Gary's nostrils. Little knots of people, pairs and trios, stood near the larger buildings, absorbed in quiet conversation. One child, part of a small group that was playing a game at the foot of the church hill, looked up from the pastime, saw the newcomers, and pointed. As if by some prearranged signal, all the children jumped up at once. 

"Morgelyn! Morgelyn!" The swarm came upon them in a joyful, chattering chorus; the children made enough noise for twice their number. They ranged in age, by Gary's guess, from two to about eight. Some wore outfits that were smaller versions of Morgelyn and Fergus's garb; others were dressed in little more than burlap sacks with holes cut for arms and heads. All were barefoot. Gary assumed that the boys were the ones who looked as if their hair had been sliced at with a weed-whacker. A few of the girls wore their hair in long braids, but most had loose, tangled masses of tresses. 

Some of the adults who were scattered around the town center broke off their conversations and stared, mostly, Gary was sure, at him, then fell back to whipsering and shooting glances at the little group. But he didn't have time to worry about that too much; a sticky hand curled around his fingers, and tugged him toward the others, who were gathering around the well. It was bounded by a broad ring of stones about the height of Gary's knees. When the melee settled, Morgelyn was sitting on the edge of the rock wall, children at her side, at her feet, and in her lap. 

Gary looked down to find his own hand grasped by a young boy with a shock of red hair, staring up at the stranger with eyes like hazel saucers. "It's a giant," he breathed, so stunned that he forgot he was holding the giant's hand. 

"Nah, I'm not a giant," Gary said with what he hoped was a friendly smile, but the hand slipped out of his and, one finger in his mouth, the little boy edged away, toward a taller girl who put an arm around his shoulders. 

"Do not worry. He is Morgelyn's friend," she whispered, and now the whole gaggle of kids was staring up at him. Gary shifted from one foot to the other, beginning to understand what Fergus had meant about being different. This wasn't Chicago, where he could just disappear into a crowd. This was the only crowd in town. 

"That is right, Halfred," Morgelyn said, and many of the heads turned in her direction. She smoothed the straw colored hair of the little one in her lap. "Gary is a friend, and he is here for a visit, so we all need to make sure he feels welcome." She held out a hand to the redhead. "Will, how fares your arm?" 

Darting a wary glance at Gary, the boy scuffled over to Morgelyn and held out his right arm for inspection. She took it in her hands, gently twisting it this way and that, and bending it so that his hand touched his shoulder. "Good as new." Will smiled, then plopped down into the dirt at her feet. Morgelyn scanned the little crowd, asking after cut fingers and bruised shins, while Fergus dropped his pack and pulled up a bucket of water on one of the thick chains draped over the well. He scooped water out with his hands and splashed it on his face, pulling an exaggerated expression, mouth gaping, nose crinkled up, and the children giggled. 

"Where is Tolan?" Morgelyn asked, and her voice was sharper, her brow creased; her smile became just a little more forced. The children shrugged or shook their heads. "I suppose his mother needed him." 

"Shouldn't these kids be in school?" Gary asked Fergus in a whisper. The other man's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. 

"They are a mite young for schooling, wouldn't you say?" 

Who knew, around here? Gary decided it wasn't worth pursuing, at least not now. A skinny girl, so thin Gary couldn't even guess her age, sat on the ground, tugging on Morgelyn's skirt. Her auburn hair dragged in the dirt when she tilted her head up. "Tell us a story!" 

"A story?" Morgelyn asked with feigned innocence. 

The tow-head in her lap nodded eagerly and bounced. "'tory! 'tory!" 

A mischievous twinkle lit Morgelyn's eyes as she glanced at the men. "Perhaps you should ask Fergus. He is going to be a real bard, after all." 

"No!" The cry was nearly unanimous. Fergus's features sagged in an exaggerated crush. 

"My mama told me that I couldn't listen to him never again." Will wagged his head emphatically. 

"Did she?" Morgelyn was laughing now, but the girl sitting next to her, the one Gary guessed to be Will's sister, nodded in serious confirmation. 

"'Zounds, tell one tale that's a bit off color," Fergus mumbled. 

Morgelyn raised an eyebrow. "A bit?" 

"Well, they said they wanted to hear about my travels in India." 

The girl on the ground covered her ears, and Gary cringed. He could just about imagine. Morgelyn waved in the direction of one of the stone buildings. A wooden sign hung out front, with a barrel painted on it. "Go, find our friend some refreshment," she told Fergus. "He looks parched." 

"Wise as always, m'lady," Fergus replied, with a sweeping bow that made the children giggle. He clapped Gary on the back. "Come, friend. Allow me to introduce you to the wonders of the Kettle and Keg." 

A few minutes later, Gary decided that he wasn't ready to call them wonders. He'd harbored hope that the tavern would be a familiar spot, something like McGinty's, but this place was no more than a dingy room half the size of his loft. It was dark as a cave, and just as confining with its warm, musty air. Against the back wall, a fire that looked as if it really didn't have the heart to burn offered the only light. A burst of laughter erupted, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Gary saw four long trestle tables that filled the space; three men sat clustered at the far end of the table closest to the fire. Closer to the entryway, another manned a large keg and a haphazard collection of pottery and pewter steins. 

Fergus sauntered over to that man, who, Gary supposed, was this place's version of a bartender. He was seedier-looking than his customers, who stopped their hushed conversation to stare at the new arrivals. Built like a fire plug, with dark, greasy hair and a crooked nose that had to have been broken more than once, the tavern keeper greeted Fergus with a brief nod. A wave of disappointment hit Gary. Not even Crumb could manage such a suspicious sneer. 

"MacEwan. When did you come back to these parts?" He looked Gary up and down. "And who've you brought with you?" 

Gary hadn't noticed it in the children's chattering, but this guy's accent was so thick he could barely make out what he was saying. But the words didn't matter as much as the undisguised hostility he was getting from this guy and from the men at the table, who fell silent and turned their eyes on him. 

Fergus twisted his cap in his hands, but he forced out a jocular request. "Ale, please, John, and two of those meat pies for which your lovely wife is so famous." The other man grunted, grabbed two steins from the table, and turned to fill them from the keg behind him. "This is Gary Hobson. A friend from the west." Fergus proclaimed, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the other patrons were still listening. 

Somehow, hearing his own name spoken aloud in this place gave him creeps on top of the creeps he already had. Gary was more than happy to follow directions and keep his mouth shut. He managed a nod at the seated men, stuck out a hand to the bartender, and was roundly ignored. 

Dropping the steins in front of them, apparently unconcerned over the ale that splashed out onto the table, the bartender rolled his eyes. "That's fascinatin', MacEwan." He turned to the fire and used a huge wooden spatula to pull something off a shelf that was tucked at the inside back of the fireplace. Gary jumped back when the spatula swung in his direction; the barkeep turned it over and two hunks of bread tumbled to the table. Fergus dropped three coins on the table and snatched up a stein and one of the bread things. Gary picked up the other stein and followed him down the row of tables. They sat at the one closest to the door. 

"What is this thing, anyway?" Gary let the pastry, which looked a little bit like a calzone, fall on the table, shaking and blowing on his fingers before taking a drink of the ale. 

"Lunch," Fergus answered between gulps. "Drink up, man, and we'll get out of here." 

Like the stuff he'd had the night before, this didn't taste like the beer Gary was used to. It was flatter and sweeter, and refrigeration, of course, was centuries away. At the other end of the room, conversation resumed; the men were joined by the barkeep. They kept their voices quieter than before, and Gary didn't miss the curious glances that were sent his way. Everything in here was browns and greys, dirt and wood, coarse clothing and coarser laughter. He had never felt so out of place in his life. 

"It's not exactly Cheers is it?" he mumbled, even though he knew the reference would go over the other man's head. 

"No, not cheerful at all," Fergus agreed. "They need entertaining, but I shall save my skills for later in the day. Finished?" He stood, waving nervously at the group on the other side of the room.   
Draining the last of his drink, Gary followed Fergus's example and picked up lunch as he stood. "You said this was a meat pie or something?" 

Fergus nodded, holding open the door as they stepped into the light, and Gary felt his shoulders relax with relief. "Kestra makes them with venison or hare." He took a large bite and puffed out his cheeks. "'S 'ot!" 

Biting back a grin at Fergus's facial contortions, Gary was about to turn toward the center of town when a new sound, a wracking cough, caught his attention instead. "What was that?" It came again, from a passageway between the tavern and a candle shop, if he was reading the picture signs correctly. Gary stepped closer, peering into the shadowy space. 

"Where are you going?" Fergus demanded. 

At first, Gary couldn't make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. The cough came from what he might otherwise have thought was a bundle of rags, camouflaged by the stones and debris that littered the ground. 

But it was human. Tufts of white hair peeped out from the rags, moving in time with the hacking. 

"Who is that?" Gary demanded. 

Fergus shook his head. "Poor creature. Ever since his family died, he has lived like this." 

Gary had seen homeless people all over Chicago, of course; he did what he could to help. "There are empty houses all over this place. Why's an old man sleeping on the streets?" 

"This is the way he wants it." Fergus tugged on his arm. "Let's go." 

Gary indicated the rest of the village with a sweep of his hand. "Don't these people take care of each other?" 

"Not everyone wishes to be taken care of. And where else would a man who's--who's--" Fergus spun toward the center of town. "Let us see what Morgelyn is up to." 

But the bundle stirred. The man sat up, revealing white hair, pocked skin, and his eyes...with a chill, Gary realized what Fergus couldn't tell him. The man's eyes were clouded over, completely sightless. Despite Fergus's frantic head shake, Gary stepped closer. He could smell age and filth; the man's face was gaunt, skin pulled tight over the cheekbones. 

"Who's there?" he asked in a voice congealed with age and illness. 

Gary put his meat pie on the ground near an arm-shaped mound of the rags. "It's a friend." Still staring, still feeling more than just sorry for the guy, remembering how Fergus had reacted when he'd told them about Marissa, he let Fergus pull him back toward the sunshine of the village center. 

"What are you doing?" Fergus stared at him in abject astonishment, as if he'd grown another head. 

"Just trying to help." 

"But..." Fergus trailed off, looking from Gary to the alley and back. 

"I wasn't hungry anyway." If Fergus couldn't figure it out for himself, he wasn't going to explain. The look Gary got from the peddler was so like Chuck that, for just a split second, he expected it to be followed by a crack about the world's oldest Cub Scout. Instead, Fergus sighed and then disappeared into the alleyway. 

"Neither was I," he said when he returned empty-handed.


	6. Chapter 6

_Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity  
Our reason co-exists with our insanity  
As we stand upon the ledges of our lives  
With our respective similarities  
It's either sadness or euphoria_  
~ Billy Joel 

While Chuck paced the loft, Marissa told him everything that had happened the day before, relieved beyond measure to be able to talk about it without filtering every word. Her heart felt lighter, though the mood in the room was not. 

When she finished there was only silence, so deep that she wondered if he hadn't walked out on her somehow. Shifting on the sofa, Marissa laced and unlaced her fingers and tried to keep from sinking into the overstuffed cushions. She knew he needed time to absorb it all, but she was confident that he'd come around and help. This was Chuck's best friend they were talking about, after all. 

"Okay, Marissa." His voice drifted from the other end of the sofa. She turned in his direction, trying, as she had since she'd arrived, to place the missing element, some quality that had always made Chuck--well, Chuck. He sounded frozen and distant, as if he were trapped in an igloo. "You've told me what you want to think happened. Now, I need you to tell me the truth." 

If he'd stepped up and slapped her, she couldn't have been more surprised. "I just did." 

He turned and paced a little more; she could hear his footsteps cross the hardwood and stop by the window. They were uneven, somehow, as if one foot was heavier than the other. "You know what I did this morning? I bought the _Sun-Times_ at the airport. That version might have had holes, but at least it was halfway believable." 

That was what was missing, she realized. Chuck's hopeful spark, his willingness to jump in and go with the flow. It was as if this news had robbed him of faith in anything other than cold, hard facts. "No, it didn't, it wasn't the real story." 

He cut her off harshly. "It was right there in the paper. The same paper that Gary supposedly got yesterday." 

"Supposedly?" She couldn't force her voice above a whisper. 

"I want to know why Gary missed it. Why didn't he see it?" Chuck's question came out strangled. 

"I think it's because he wasn't meant to." She rose and took a couple of steps toward him, wishing she could convey belief with a touch. Her words didn't seem to be getting through at all. "Because whatever happened, wherever he is, the paper wanted him to be there." 

"Bullshit!" 

Flinching, Marissa pulled her hand back. 

"Tell me the truth." His footsteps pounded closer, until she could feel his breath, whiskey-laden, on her face. "Do you think it's possible that Gary could have seen this and just let it happen?" 

When the full weight of his meaning sank in, Marissa couldn't breathe. It was more than she could bear, to think that Chuck would think...her voice wouldn't go above a whisper. "What are you saying?" 

"You know what I mean. I had a lot of time to think on the plane, and there was only one way I could figure out that something like this could have happened." He paused, swallowed; the edge was gone from his voice when he continued. "Was it all just too much? All the neediness, and the ingratitude and the danger? Did he decide to just get it over with?" 

"Chuck, no." It was worse than what the police had implied the day before. True, Gary had complained about the city wanting too much from him, but that was just Gary blowing off steam. She reached out, but couldn't find Chuck's arm, and her hand fell back to her side. "No. Gary would never do that. Not with me right there. I wouldn't let him." 

"Like you could stop him if he wanted to?" 

Shaking her head, Marissa backed away from Chuck's confused despair, away from his insinuation. The backs of her knees hit the sofa, and she sat down again, starting when Spike nudged his wet nose against her hand. 

"You have to admit it's one explanation that makes sense. Unless you think he's down in the sewer system somewhere playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles." The smart-aleck, throwaway comment lacked Chuck's usual ease, and the sarcasm was so sharp that she half-expected to find bite marks as she rubbed her arms. "It's the only thing that tracks, if you buy the whole next-day's-paper thing." 

"If?" What was he implying? She clawed at the edges of the sofa cushions while the world she thought she knew turned inside out. "How can you say that? This is _crazy_. And he didn't want to. I told you what happened. Why won't you believe me?" 

"Because you haven't really told me anything, nothing concrete, nothing that makes any sense. Besides that, it's completely impossible." 

"More impossible than getting tomorrow's news today?" 

"Crystal balls, ancient legends, a dragon slayer? Yes! Yes, it is, and Gary would have said the same thing." 

"No, Chuck. Please, if we can just find that letter, this will make more sense." She gestured at the coffee table, choking back the lump in her throat. 

There was a moment of silence, heavy as lead. "I don't see anything like that around here. Nothing at all." Chuck sighed, and the doubt in his voice turned to bitter kindness. "Look, I know you're upset. I am too. We're both looking for reasons, but it would be better if you faced reality." 

"The reality is, Cat is still around." Hadn't he heard her the first time? "And none of us got the paper, so it must be with Gary." 

"Maybe it's already gone to someone else." Chuck's voice got louder, more strained. "Someone who cashed in on the market and is now residing on a beach in Jamaica." 

She drew her hands into her lap, willed her fingers to stop trembling. "I don't believe that." 

"You're gonna believe yourself right into a nuthouse! He's not coming back, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can deal with this and everybody can get on with their lives. This--this guilt or whatever it is, you have to let it go." He sat down next to her, and covered one of her hands with his own. "I'm sorry, but you have to let Gary go." 

She couldn't move. He didn't believe her, the one person she'd thought she could rely on, and he wouldn't even try. "Don't you understand what I'm saying?" 

"I understand how you must feel." He squeezed her hand. "I know it must have been awful, being there when it happened, but there's nothing you could have done." 

Shaking off his hand, she jumped to her feet. Her voice rose with incredulity. "You think that I--that I couldn't--that this is my fault?" 

"No, no, I don't think that at all," he insisted. "I think you think it's your fault, and that's why you're doing this. It isn't the same thing." 

"Oh my God." Her stomach twisted into a knot, and Marissa backed away. She kept her hands behind her until she bumped up against Gary's entertainment center; wrapped her fingers around the metal support posts until their holes and edges dug into her skin. "You don't believe a word I said, do you?" 

"Look, it's okay, I understand. You're using it." 

"I'm what?" 

"You're using the paper as an excuse to hang on." He spoke slowly, as if to a small child. As if he was the one with the psychology background. "To think that Gary's still--Marissa, it just can't be true." 

She knew he was tired and grieving, and that alcohol had muddled his thinking. Her patience, however, was ready to snap. He'd accused Gary of the unthinkable, and now he was accusing her of being unbelievable. 

"Chuck, listen to me." She let go of the posts, drawing herself in tight. "Gary didn't let this happen." 

"Oh, c'mon." He marched past her, toward the window. 

Marissa turned, reaching out a hand, pleading through her anger. "He didn't know, and there's a reason it happened, but it wasn't the reason you seem to think. And I didn't let it happen, either. I know that. This isn't about misplaced guilt. This is about Gary, who he is, and that he needs our help. It's about you opening your mind just a little, just enough to consider the possibility that the facts mean something. They haven't found him, Cat showed up last night, there's no new pa--" 

Whiskey-laced air exploded in her face. "There's no new paper because he's _gone_." 

"Gary is not go--he's _not_. How can you say that?" 

"I'm trying to help you, here!" 

They were both shouting now, inches apart. In the midst of her anger and her fear that she was in this alone, Marissa felt her heart cracking for the man in front of her, for how much he must have been hurt by the news. "Gary is the one who needs your help, and you can help by dragging your head out of your butt and listening to me!" 

"Well, at least my head isn't buried in the sand like some goddamn ostri--" 

"Fishman, what the hell are you doing?" 

The fumes around her face cleared, and Crumb's heavy tread crossed the hardwood. 

"They can probably hear you two up at Wrigley, for cryin' out loud. What's the matter with you, Fishman?" 

"I'm not the one you should be to talking to," Chuck grumbled. 

Marissa had her arms crossed tight over her ribs, and she knew Crumb could feel her shaking when his hand brushed her shoulder. "Is he bothering you?" 

Bothered didn't seem like a strong enough word for what she felt--heart tripping double-time, ears ringing, stomach twisting in on itself. But she didn't need to be protected, not from Chuck. "We're just..." She trailed off, unable to find any way to explain this to Crumb. "Chuck, I didn't mean to hurt you." 

No response. He brushed past her, stalking into the kitchen area. 

"Yeah, get something to eat, maybe the low blood sugar's getting to you," Crumb muttered. 

Marissa sighed. "How much of that did you hear?" He didn't answer at first. Across the loft, cupboards banged open and closed. She hadn't thought she could feel any worse, but now her knotted stomach was doing flip-flops. She wanted to know what was going on between Chuck and Crumb, what the looks they were probably exchanging over her head signified, what the silence that pressed down upon the loft meant. 

To her surprise, it was Chuck who broke it. "He heard enough that he's looking at you like maybe he ought to stick you full of Valium or something." 

"Fishman!" 

"Well, you are." 

"That's not what I was thinking at all." Crumb lowered his voice, speaking directly to Marissa. "But I don't understand what this is all about. What did you mean when you said you had to help Hobson?" 

Crumb wouldn't have been her first choice to try to convince. But her first choice had slammed the door in her face. Crumb had been so sincerely kind, and he had been there when the whole thing started. Maybe he wasn't such a long shot after all. "Do you remember that woman who came into the bar a few days ago, looking for Gary? She came back. She gave Gary that thing they pulled out of the lake yesterday, it was from her. I think it means something. Something important ." 

Crumb muttered something under his breath; it sounded a lot like, "Not again." 

"And what do you think?" Crumb called to Chuck. 

The only response was a rattling of dishes and silverware, and more cupboard-banging. "How am I supposed to make a sandwich with moldy bread?" 

"Chuck doesn't agree," Marissa told Crumb, "but I don't think he's looking at this clearly." 

"Look who's talking!" 

Crumb sighed. "Look, there's bread down in the kitchen. Why don't you go get some?" 

"Fine." Chuck's uneven footsteps echoed through the loft, then he clomped down the stairs. 

"You want something to eat?" asked Crumb. 

She shook her head. "But I could use a glass of water." 

He touched her elbow, steering her over to the kitchen. "Marissa, what exactly is it that you think happened?" 

"I don't know, not exactly, but I think it's something very unusual." She swallowed hard. "Look, Crumb, I can just about imagine what you're thinking right now. Despite what Chuck might think, I'm not crazy, and I'm not trying to deny anything. I know it appears that Gary--that he's drowned. I know all your evidence points that way. But we have other evidence. Whatever's happened to him, I think he can come back." 

"What other evidence?" Crumb asked. When she hesitated, knowing that prevarication was beyond her, he made a strange snorting noise, then said as he ran the water, "You're holding something back. You have that same look you always got when you and Hobson were talking about his mumbo-jumbo and I'd interrupt." 

"I don't know where to start." 

He handed her a glass, and she used both hands to steady it and raise it to her lips. It was lucky that she'd swallowed before Crumb muttered, "I always said that guy must've had a crystal ball to tell him what was gonna happen." 

Before Marissa could form a response, footsteps pounded up the stairs double time. "Hey," Chuck called, "I think I found your letter." 

"It's Gary's," Marissa corrected automatically, but hope tingled through her, fluttering like birds' wings against her skin. She held out her hand and took the envelope, thin and creased with age. 

"Technically, it's--" Chuck hesitated. "It's neither," he finished lamely. Well, at least he still remembered to keep his mouth shut. "It was under the desk." 

"You looked under the desk?" 

"I had to tie my shoe." 

She very nearly smiled, and just like that, their annoyance fled. Neither would apologize after a spat, but this was close enough. In spite of everything, Marissa felt better. "You'll have to read it." She held the letter out to Chuck again. 

"I'll be downstairs," Crumb said. 

"You don't have to leave." 

"It's all right. I know when to back off." 

"No." Marissa's denial surprised even herself. "I don't think you should back off this time. I don't want you to." She turned to Chuck, who had as much right to make this decision as she did. Before this went any further, they needed to have an understanding, and some ground rules, but she was tired of trying to do this all on her own, and she hadn't even begun. "I think Crumb should hear this. But I don't know what's in the letter about Snow, and Gary, and it's up to you to decide what to read." 

"What she means is, leave out the stuff about the newspaper." 

Marissa's heart skipped a beat. Chuck started choking and coughing, and in a second she could hear a hollow thumping. 

"Okay, it's okay, it was just a grape." After another bout of coughing, Chuck whispered, "What did you just say?" 

"Aw, c'mon," Crumb grumbled. "It's not like I never figured out that whatever was up with Hobson had to do with that damn paper. They didn't make me a detective because I'm stupid, ya know." 

"But--but how did you--" 

"No one in their right mind carries a newspaper everywhere they go, especially not the _Sun-Times_. Hobson may have had a few screws loose, but he wouldn't have had friends like you guys if he'd really been out of his gourd. I figured out a long time ago that the way he knew stuff ahead of time had something to do with that paper." 

"You always said you didn't want to know," Marissa managed to choke out. They'd always been so careful... 

"And I don't, not the heebie-jeebie details, okay? But I couldn't help but notice the damn thing. Don't look so shocked." 

Marissa managed a faint smile. "I think we underestimated you." 

Crumb's grunt said that the matter was closed. "Yeah, well, now that's over, let's get on with it. Is this letter your evidence?" 

"Part of it." She wanted a stool, and was feeling underneath the table when Crumb pulled it out for her. 

"Sit down and talk to us here. Fishman, no comments from the peanut gallery unless you have something worthwhile to add." 

"Believe me," Chuck muttered through a mouthful of food, "I don't have anything to add to this." 

Settling onto the stool, glad for something solid underneath her, Marissa chose her words carefully. "Crumb, you know how Gary is. He knows about things ahead of time. I don't think that he--that his gift--would have let something like this happen to him. But I know that that's not enough; if all I had were that feeling, then you and Chuck would both be right about me." 

"Hey, don't lump me in with him," Crumb protested. 

"Just wait until you've heard the rest of her spiel." From Chuck's direction, she could hear paper being unfolded and handled. 

"There's more," she insisted. "Gary's cat showed up at my place last night. I don't know if I should tell you why that matters, but trust me, it does. This cat wouldn't do that unless it wanted something." 

"Kibbles?" 

"Chuck!" 

"Fishman, I warned you once." 

"Chuck knows better. He's just being--" Marissa bit her lip, determined that she wasn't going to start bickering with Chuck, not again. "He knows Cat doesn't come around unless it's something to do with Gary." 

"Okay," Crumb said slowly, "so you've got a feeling, a cat, and a letter?" 

"And Kelyn Gillespie." 

"Who?" 

"That girl, Crumb, the one who was here looking for Gary. She gave him the letter, and that thing we pulled out of the lake yesterday. I think she knows something, more than we do, anyway, and I want to go talk to her after I hear what's in the letter. This morning I had a friend help me find her address. it was Morris, Chuck, down in the archives at the _Sun-Times_." 

He sighed in response, then affected a New York accent. "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." 

"You're no Pacino," Crumb told him dryly. 

"Please, Chuck," Marissa said, "you don't even have to believe, just tell me what it says. Then I'll go talk to the girl and see if she can help." 

"We'll all go," Crumb corrected. 

"You don't have to." 

"Hell I don't. I don't care what's going on, or how spooky it is, if this girl has anything to do with what happened to Hobson, nobody's going to see her alone." Underneath Crumb's bluster, there was a foundation of granite. 

"You believe this?" She gestured toward Chuck, toward the letter. 

Crumb snorted. "Not really, no. But I trust you, and for right now that's good enough." 

Marissa bit her lip. It wouldn't do any good to cry now. She ducked her head, fighting back waves of exhaustion and faint hope. 

"Read the letter, Fishman, and then we'll go see this Gillespie girl. Crumb gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Together." 

The first thing he wanted to know, before Chuck even got into the body of the letter, was who Lucius Snow was. "He was afriend of Gary's," Chuck offered. 

"He worked at the _Sun-Times_ , too. He was a typesetter." 

"So this letter--your evidence--it wasn't even addressed to Hobson?" 

"It explains what that globe is all about. Kelyn Gillespie gave it to Gary yesterday, too." 

He grunted, maybe not satisfied, but still willing to listen. However, as Chuck read the letter, which didn't contain any surprises other than what Gary had told Marissa the day before, she could sense, in his tense silence, a backing away from the door he'd begun to open only moments before. Believing in her wasn't the same as believing that something magic was going on here. 

The uneasy silence lingered after Chuck finished reading the letter. He finally cleared his throat. "This doesn't sound like much to go on. It's even less believable than Gary's usual brand of supernatural whatchamacallit." 

"Hocus-pocus," Crumb said, then cleared his throat. Marissa could sense the unspoken conversation taking place between them, the looks they were shooting each other, the way they were calculating just how far to let her run with this before reeling her back in. 

Crumb's voice was gentle, measured, and oh-so-careful, as if she were a thin china plate that he had to carry with his words. "I need your help understanding this, Marissa. When I hear that letter, all I hear is a story of a family heirloom and a woman who, what, years ago, right?--gave it to a guy she was sweet on. What is it that you hear that makes it different, that makes you believe that Hobson's still alive, after all this time?" 

It hadn't been any time at all; it hadn't even been a full day. Yesterday at this time Gary had been downstairs, talking to her, gulping down coffee, running out to save the world. When she caught her breath and brought herself back to the present, her hands were curled up in fists, locking in her faith. "Because I know Gary. If this had been an accident, he would have known it was coming." 

Crumb guffawed. "Doesn't that sort of defy the definition of accident?" 

"This letter implies that there's something different, something special, about this thing, and that Gary might have been able to help someone who was in real danger." 

"From a dragon?" Chuck asked. 

She sat up straighter, her spine stiffening as she braced herself for another battle. "If anyone wanted to find a hero, who better than Gary?" 

Crumb snorted. 

"So where is he now?" Chuck wanted to know. 

"They haven't found him yet, have they? Crumb, can you tell me you're convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Gary drowned yesterday?" 

Chuck answered instead. "There's nothing reasonable about what you're saying, Marissa." He was close enough that she could smell peanut butter mixed with the whiskey in his breath. "Nothing remotely like this has ever happened before, not even with the newspaper." 

"Just because there is no precedent, that doesn't mean it can't happen." 

"Okay, okay. We go, we talk to this Gillespie girl," Crumb said reluctantly. "But that's it, okay? If she doesn't know anything, you'll let this go?" 

"I can't make that promise. But if she doesn't know anything, and you want to drop it after that, I'll understand." Marissa got down from the stool and reached for Spike's harness. 

It was a compromise none of them was comfortable with, but it would have to do for the time being. She just hoped that, wherever he might be, Gary would know that they were trying to bring him home.  


* * *

  
_An event of great agony is bearable only  
in the belief that it will bring about a better  
world. When it does not...disillusion is deep._  
~ Barbara Tuchman 

None of the little group gathered by the well noticed when Gary and Fergus approached, hovering on the outskirts of the storyteller's circle. 

"Many more adventures befell Oisin in the land of Tir na n-Og, while he lived with Niamh and her people. After some time had passed, he found himself longing to return to his home and visit his companions." Morgelyn's voice was low, but it wove a spell that had trapped all the kids. Silent as stones, mouths half-open, they were hanging on every word. "Niamh told him that he could go, but only if he would promise not to set foot on the earth; he must remain at all times on the white horse she gave him. Oisin agreed, for he did not think that he would have cause to disobey her. But, as is the case with the instructions of fairies and all the Tuatha, it is folly to think they are given without reason--" 

Fergus coughed, and Morgelyn broke off, staring over the heads of the children at Fergus and Gary. Confused by her startled expression, Gary looked from her to Fergus, who jerked his head at Gary, one eyebrow lifted. 

"What next?" demanded Will, who was standing in front of Morgelyn, his elbows on her knee, chin on his fist. 

Morgelyn gulped, blinking down at him. "I--I forgot." 

"No you did not!" He stomped his foot indignantly. 

The toddler on her lap put a hand on her shoulder, staring solemnly into her eyes. "You canna forget. Who will tell the stories if you forget?" 

"I remember," the little girl at her feet said helpfully. "Oisin found that the land had changed, and everyone he knew was gone. He came upon a group of men in a field who were trying to move a huge stone, and they asked for his help." She paused for breath, and all the children started filling in the story with an avalanche of words. 

"He tried to reach down and help them--" 

"But the saddle broked--" 

"Not the saddle, idiot; the girth!" 

"And he fell off!" 

"Enough." Morgelyn rose, placing the child who'd been on her lap back on the rock wall. She lifted another and tugged her folded-up cloak out from underneath her, then handed the cloak to Fergus, who stowed it in his pack along with his own. 

"But you forgot the ending!" Will complained. 

"We must save it for another day." She grabbed Gary's arm and started to pull him away. "Farewell, children." 

Fergus was trying, with little success, to hide his laughter. Caught between his mirth and Morgelyn's unease, Gary didn't know what to think. Something about that story seemed kind of familiar, though. "I want to hear the ending." He planted his feet in the dust. 

"He wants to hear the ending," Fergus sing-songed. 

Morgelyn clicked her tongue. "No, he doesn't. Tamsyn, no." 

"But I know the ending." The girl who'd been sitting on the ground tugged on the hem of Gary's vest. Solemn grey eyes gazed up at him from a sea of freckles. "Oisin tried to help the people from his horse, because he was kind and strong. But the stone was too heavy. He fell, and he broke the fairy's spell. He turned into an old man, and then he died, because his own time was gone, and he never got back to the in-between time in Tir na n-Og, where Niamh was waiting for him. And all because he wanted to help." She frowned at Gary as if it was his fault. "I don't think that's very fair." 

"No it isn't," he agreed. The back of his neck prickled. 

Morgelyn put a hand on his arm. "It is only a story, and if it has any lesson at all, 'tis that children should obey their elders." The last bit was delivered firmly in Tamsyn's direction. "We really should go." 

This time the children stayed behind. Morgelyn led the way down a short lane, a few doors from the tavern. Fergus's chuckling bubbled over, and he leaned against the side of a stone shop building, one hand over his stomach. 

"It isn't funny," Morgelyn chided. 

"Oh, but did you see the look on his face? And you, you looked as if you had heard a banshee." 

Dismissing him with an impatient shake of her head, Morgelyn started off again. Gary caught up in a few long strides, and Fergus, who probably didn't want to miss the punch line to this private joke of his, was close behind. 

"What happened to him?" Gary asked. 

"Who?" Morgelyn wouldn't look at Gary, and Gary couldn't look at Fergus. It might have been funny to the peddler, but Gary couldn't shake off the uneasiness he felt. 

"That ocean guy." 

"Oisin," Fergus corrected. 

Try as he might, Gary couldn't hear a difference, but that wasn't what was making his skin crawl. "Yeah, him, the guy in the story, the one in the wrong time. Hey--" He grabbed Morgelyn's upper arm and turned her around to face him. "It sounded a little familiar, you know? Too close for comfort. I want to know what happened." 

"Tamsyn told you," Fergus kept his voice matter-of-fact, as if he were reciting a history lesson instead of some old fable, but there was a mad, teasing twinkle in his eye. "He left his horse and set foot on the Earth, an Earth that had changed utterly since his own time. He was trapped there. Not for long, though. He was so aged after all his time in Tir na n-Og that he died an old man. He never knew if his father and friends had searched for him; they were dust long before he returned." 

Releasing his hold on Morgelyn, Gary gaped at the peddler. "You're making this up." 

"It is as old and true as any legend about a dragon slayer." 

"Fergus, stop." 

Seconds ticked past in a quiet broken only by shouts and laughter from the children. A stench wafted from behind one of the houses on a breeze that tickled the back of Gary's neck. 

"But he didn't do anything wrong," Gary finally managed. "Not on purpose." 

Morgelyn had barely opened her mouth before Fergus continued, "Nevertheless, he broke the rules. And Niamh, his true love, never knew what befell him." 

"Stop." Although quiet, Morgelyn's command cut through Fergus's teasing. She looked Gary in the eye; somehow, it made him feel less comfortable than she must have intended. "It's only a story." 

"It'd better be." 

"It is, I swear it." She reached over and squeezed his arm; they continued their walk down the lane. 

"Still, friend," Fergus told him, "I would keep that cat of yours close at hand." When he saw Morgelyn's ominous frown, he snapped his fingers. "Oh! Tom the miller asked me to bring him cloth for new grain sacks," and ducked down the nearest lane. 

"Hey!" Gary called after him, to no avail. Annoying as Fergus was, he wasn't half as disconcerting as Morgelyn could be, and Gary felt all out of balance now. 

"He'll find us again. Come with me." Morgelyn led Gary behind one of the empty houses to an open meadow, and gathered wildflowers as she spoke. "You should not heed him. He loves to tease and unsettle people, and you are not meant to take him so seriously." 

"I don't know how to take anything these days," Gary admitted. 

After filling the crook of her arms with flowers--purple, yellow, blue, and crimson--she turned back toward the village proper. Once again, they skirted the village center, then climbed the hill to the stone church. Although it was certainly imposing in relation to the rest of the village, Gary could see now that it was little more than a chapel, its windows uncovered slits in the stone walls, its steeple and bell tower slightly out of proportion to the building that supported it. 

"Is it Sunday?" he wondered aloud. 

Morgelyn shook her head. "No, two days past." All of a sudden she was tuned out, her expression distant and abstracted. Maybe they were here to pray or something. Now that would be like Marissa. But when they reached the doors of the church, Morgelyn turned to the left and followed a dirt path that led to the clearing behind the church. The yard was surrounded by a low stone wall, no higher than Gary's waist. An iron gate swung open with a weary creak at Morgelyn's touch, and she stepped into the churchyard--the graveyard, Gary realized with a gulp. 

It was dotted with old oak trees, new wooden crosses, and stones set into the ground in no pattern that Gary could discern. Most of the graves had no carvings to indicate who was buried beneath. A few were strewn with flowers. The unnatural quiet of the place was broken only when a cool breeze stirred through the leaves. 

Their path wound among the markers and mounds, and they were at the back edge of the clearing when Morgelyn halted near a spreading oak. She handed some of her flowers to Gary, who stayed where he was, keeping a respectful distance. A stone slab was planted under the shade of the tree, intricately carved with twining curves in a pattern rather like that of the base of the crystal ball--scrying glass, Gary corrected himself. Kelyn had called them Celtic knots. Even here, even now, the patterns looked old, though the cuts in the stone did not. Morgelyn knelt easily, laying the flowers in front of the stone. Others grew there on their own, white and delicate. 

There was a low hum, the whine of bees going about their work, but somehow it just added to the stillness. One hand in the center of the intricate circle, Morgelyn whispered words in a language Gary didn't understand, not even with the translation effect. "Seanmháthair, an mafóir de dragan..." 

He shifted from one foot to the other, feeling like a misplaced flower girl with his arms full of blossoms. If Chuck could see him now, he'd be rolling down the hill, laughing his butt off. Gary bit back a wistful grin, knowing it was out of place, a nervous reaction because he was so out of place, out of time, and out of his mind for thinking that he could make a difference when he didn't even understand what was going on around him. Morgelyn fell silent again, head tilted to one side as if listening for--or to--something. When she stood, she darted a look around the churchyard and made a quick sign of the cross. She added some of the white flowers to the bundle when she took it back from Gary. 

"This is where my grandmother lies," she said in response to his quizzical look. Rather than breaking the quiet, her words blended with the soft noises around them. "Not her true self, of course; just her body. But I can feel her spirit here, too. Sometimes other places, but always at the shore, and always here." 

"Fergus said she raised you." 

Morgelyn nodded. "My parents died when I was young, as did my grandfather. We had each other, and sometimes we had little else." 

"How--um--how did she--" Gary tried to stuff his hands in the pockets of his bomber, before he realized he wasn't wearing it. 

"How did she die?" 

He nodded, wishing he could take back the question when he saw the pain that flashed across her face. 

"A disease swept through the village." Turning on her heel, she resumed her path among the gravestones. A few yards away they stopped again, this time at a barren mound of earth about ten feet square. Morgelyn pulled a dozen flowers from her haphazard bouquet and scattered them over the dirt. Reaching for the pouch that hung from her belt, she produced a small piece of linen. She held it in one palm, unfolding it carefully, revealing a small pile of seeds. "Flower seeds," she explained. "Poppy and heather and daisies, hardy flowers, but there is little hope they will sprout." For a few seconds, her hand remained poised, palm down, over the mound, then she let it fall back to her side. "This is the second summer, and still nothing grows here." 

The way she said it, so quiet and bewildered, sent ice water down Gary's back. The empty houses, Fergus's dire pronouncements that morning, the grave in front of him--he was looking at a mass grave, he realized with a sick lurch of his stomach. "The second summer since what?" 

Morgelyn slipped into her storyteller's voice, but it lacked the warmth it had held when she spoke to the children. "It started in the fall, and bloomed all through the winter and early spring. A disease, a pestilence, that took the lives of half the villagers here. It spread like fire in a dry season, and no family was left untouched." 

"Pestilence?" Fergus had used that word, too. "Like in the Bible?" 

"Like the plagues of Egypt, yes, but this took more than just the first born. Once one person in a house had the black boils or the cough, it was nearly certain that they would not be the only ones to die." She pivoted so that she was looking directly at Gary, looking for an answer, he thought, that he surely did not have. "There were so many dead, so quickly, so much pain and fear, that those of us left alive little knew how to care for ourselves or comfort the dying. Some of them, like my grandmother, had family left to bury them, but many did not. Those we buried together here, whole families, and a single Mass was said for all their souls. That was two years ago, and still nothing grows on their burial mound. I fear it is a sign." 

"Are you talking about the--the plague?" Gary stammered. "The _Black_ Plague?" No one had told him he'd need shots for this trip. 

"That is not the name we give it, although it would fit. We dare not give it any name at all." Her movements were stiff and robotic. "It seems strange to say, but we were fortunate. Fergus tells me that it spread through all the known world; he himself saw villages that were left entirely empty. In one he found three men dead in the churchyard; they'd been trying to bury their brethren when they'd succumbed as well." 

This was no history book. This was no video. It was real. He was standing there talking to someone who'd lived through a worldwide disaster. But she'd lived; they all had lived, everyone he'd met here, and surely that had an effect on the kinds of people they'd become. 

"You didn't get sick?" 

She winced as if he'd said something hurtful. "No--I mean, yes, I did fall ill. But I recovered." She ducked her head and looked back at the barren grave. "I know not why, when so many others were taken." 

"Like your grandmother?" 

Morgelyn nodded, still not meeting his eyes. "Yes. The only one of us who knew how to ease any of it. Many of these are here because she is gone, and I cannot..." Trailing off, she started walking again, toward the church. "Life has not been the same since. It never will. Grandmother said, even when she was dying, that there was a reason I recovered. But I still do not know what it is." 

Trying to offer what comfort he could, Gary said, "If it helps, I kinda know what that's like--not knowing the reasons for stuff, I mean. Like--" He spread his hands out wide. He felt helpless, but what else could he offer in the face of half a village gone? "Like what I'm doing here." 

"Then we are two of a kind." They wound their way through the churchyard and made a third stop at a freshly-dug grave. This one was also bare, but that was because the earth was still moist and new. Gary wondered if Morgelyn knew as many people in here as she did out in the village. 

It was a small disturbance of earth, dug for a child. There was no wooden cross here, no headstone. 

Gary fought a rising tide of anger inside him at whatever had brought him here, too damn late. But who was he kidding? He couldn't have stopped the Black Plague. He hadn't even been able to put out the Chicago Fire. 

Again Morgelyn knelt, placing all of the remaining flowers at one end of the dark rectangle, thrown into sharp relief by the surrounding grass. Closing her eyes, she fell silent for a moment, and this time when she spoke her voice was so low that Gary had to duck his head to hear her. 

"This is the grave of Ronana Styles. Last week she was among that group of children you saw in the village. Five days ago, her mother sent for me. She was ill, and I tried to help her. I did what I could, but--" She clutched the bag of seeds so tightly that Gary could see her knuckles turn pale. He knelt, too, so he could better hear her choked whisper. She shook her head, her gaze focused on the seeds that she was scattering, brushing loose earth over them with her free hand. "I could not save her. She died that night. My grandmother could have cured her, I am sure of it. But she left me before she could teach me enough." Morgelyn sat back on her heels, and he was nearly bowled over by the absolute grief and self-doubt he saw in her eyes. "Ronana died, and Iam afraid it is all beginning anew. Another plague, or some other curse, and this time I do not think we can withstand it." 

"And that's why you called me?" 

She nodded. 

"Fergus said you didn't know why it worked this time, why you were able to get me here." The logic here, the logic of magic, followed rules that Gary was only beginning to learn. 

Morgelyn drew her hands into her lap. "Fergus does not know about Ronana. It is difficult for me to tell--to speak about--" 

"It's okay," Gary said quickly. "I can understand why. What I don't get is why I ended up coming now. Why not when everyone else was sick?" 

She turned a desperate expression on him. "I tried then. Not two days went by when I did not try. But I didn't know what to do. I don't know why it worked this time, rather than any other. It frightens me to think that worse could befall us than what has already happened." Her eyes widened as if she'd just had a hopeful thought. "Perhaps this new disease is something you can cure." 

Gary drew in a sharp breath. He was definitely not equipped for this kind of rescue. "Morgelyn, I'm not a doctor. I don't know about medicines or how to heal people, anymore than I'm a dragon slayer or a knight in armor. When we need medicine, we just buy it. Someone else makes it, and I'm not that someone. I'm not--I can't--" His hand fumbled in the air while he fumbled for the right words. "Look, you gotta stop with the cryptic show and tell, here. What do you want me to do about this?" 

"That's the trouble. I do not know why you are here. It is my fault. I have done so many things wrong since Grandmother died." 

He didn't know where the question came from, but it was there, and it was right. "How many people are _not_ in this graveyard because of you?" 

Her eyes widened. "I don't know." 

"But some?" This time it was Gary who held her eyes. For the first time, he felt as if he had something to offer, an idea born of his own experience. 

"Yes." Her expression brightened; her voice took on more confidence. "Yes, some." 

"Then you haven't failed. If you hadn't tried," Gary said, lifting his hand to indicate the grave, "this little girl would have died anyway. You have to keep trying for the ones that you can help." 

"Morgelyn!" The call came from the gate. Gary stood stiffly, offering a hand to Morgelyn and pulling her up as a woman in worn clothes, hair tied back with a kerchief, skidded up to them. "Morgelyn, I--" Her breath caught as she looked past them. She put a hand over her mouth and gulped back a sob. "Ro--my little girl..." 

"Anna?" Morgelyn took a step toward the woman, who tore her gaze away from the grave with difficulty. 

The woman gasped. "You cannot let this happen again." She grabbed Morgelyn by the arm and pulled her back toward the gate. 

"What is it, Anna? What's wrong?" 

Gary had to hurry to keep pace with the women. Something was happening, but he had no clue what it was. 

"'Tis Tolan, you have to help him." Anna stumbled on a low stone marker and Morgelyn pulled her to a halt. 

"All will be well," said Morgelyn, half out of breath. Her grief and doubt were gone, a fierce calm in their place. "Tell us what is wrong." 

"Us?" Anna's frantic, darting gaze finally landed on Gary. 

"Anna Styles," Morgelyn began formally, "this is--" 

"Oh, it matters not, come _now_ , before Mark comes in from the fields, Morgelyn, you know how he is, please!" 

"Collect yourself." Morgelyn grasped the woman by the shoulders. "What is wrong with Tolan?" 

"He is coughing, just like Ronana did, and he has a fever. He woke up hot as embers this morning. I swear, he was not sick yesterday, not at all!" 

Furrowing her brow, Morgelyn asked, "Is he alone now?" 

Impossibly, Anna's pale blue eyes widened even further. "There was no choice! I saw Fergus in the village, he said you might be here, Morgelyn, _please_!" The woman was nearly sobbing now, her face splotched red with emotion and the effort she'd made. 

Morgelyn clasped Anna's hand as she turned to Gary. "Go and find Fergus. Tell him to meet me at Mark and Anna's home. He will need to bring lungwort, sage, bettony, and elecampane. Can you remember all that? Whatever he does not have with him, he can gather from the fields." 

Messenger boy? Gary thought. That was all he was supposed to do? "Can't I help?" 

"Believe me, this is the best thing you can do right now." Morgelyn repeated the strange list, then made Gary repeat it. "We will figure out the rest later," she added in response to his unspoken question. "Try the tavern first. Please hurry!" she called over her shoulder, as Anna pulled her down the hill. The two women broke into a run, skirts flying, and were soon out of sight. Gary spared one last glance at the quiet resting place before starting off for the village proper. This was hardly a task requiring a hero, or even him, and certainly not one that needed a man from the future who knew tomorrow's-- 

That brought Gary up short. He slowed to a walk, ignoring the strange looks he got from passers-by, keeping an eye out for Fergus. He hadn't known. Would it have helped if he had? Of course it would, he should have known, that was what he did. But if there was no paper--he shook his head. There was a sick kid to deal with. The paper would have to wait.   


* * *

  
_  
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles)  
were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times,  
but not very good at recognizing it._  
~ J. K. Rowling 

Gary found Fergus in the tiny tavern, regaling a handful of men with a tall tale about pirates. "Come for more stories?" the would-be bard asked when he entered. 

"No, it's--" Gary faltered, not sure who was supposed to hear this. They were all watching him. He inclined his head toward the door. "We need to talk." 

Fergus must have read something in his posture or his tone, because all pretense of teasing vanished. "Gentlemen, urgent business calls me away." He ignored the snorts that followed them out of the tavern. 

Gary relayed what had happened and what Morgelyn wanted, hoping he'd remembered everything correctly. Fergus dug in his omnipresent pack and pulled out a clay jar and a muslin-wrapped packet. "Take these to her. I can find the others in the woods over yonder." 

Great. Now he was the porter. "But I don't know where the house is." 

"Just past the baker's. Follow your nose, and then to the second house behind it." Fergus pointed across the village, up one of the spoke roads that lead toward farmland. He was gone before Gary could be sure that he'd located the right house. At least there was smoke coming from its roof; that was a start. More frustrated than ever, he started off in the direction Fergus had indicated. 

The thatch-roofed hut was rounded, little more than a pile of stones fronted by a small, weed-choked garden. It had no door, just an opening covered with a dirty burlap-bag of a curtain; soft murmurs drifted through. Gary hesitated before the curtain until he identified one of the voices as Morgelyn's. 

Inside wasn't any cleaner than out; a fire in the middle of the dirt-packed floor and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out provided the only sources of light. In the corner, barely distinguishable at first from the bundle of blankets in which he coughed and tossed, lay a small boy, five or six years old by Gary's guess. Morgelyn lifted his head and tried to get him to drink something from a pottery cup, while the mother stirred a large kettle over the fire. The whole place smelled of wood smoke and mildew and--Gary wrinkled his nose--not having been cleaned in a long time. 

When he cleared his throat, Morgelyn rose stiffly. Whispering her thanks, she took what he offered, and nodded when he told her Fergus had gone for the rest. For all the attention she paid Gary, he might have been invisible. She was completely wrapped up in her task. Gary felt too big for the room, and because it seemed the least obtrusive spot, he moved to the doorway. He was watching her instruct Anna as to which herbs and powders to place in the pot when Fergus came in, holding what looked like a bunch of weeds and wildflowers. 

"This is what you wanted?" he asked without preamble. "I found some tansy as well, if it's of use." 

"Possibly." Morgelyn handed the bundle off to Anna. "We need to make an infusion with the lungwort." The boy's cough grew harsher, and she hurried over to his pallet. 

Fergus hauled Gary out of the dim, confining hut. He picked up two jugs that sat just outside the door and started for the village again, but he turned when Gary didn't follow. 

"They will need fresh water." He said it as if it were something even a child should know. 

"Okay." Staring back at the house, Gary didn't move. He heard Fergus heave a sigh and then retrace his steps. 

"What is it?" 

"That boy sounds pretty sick." Gary had a feeling that something was wrong, something more than just the obvious. 

"If anyone in these parts can cure him, 'tis Morgelyn." Fergus's laconic confidence was a sharp contrast to the self-doubt Morgelyn had expressed in the churchyard. 

One arm outstretched in the direction of the cottage, Gary tried to explain, to himself as much as to Fergus. "Morgelyn said his sister died. And that guy, that guy in the alley, the one who was blind, he was coughing like that." 

"One thing at a time, my good man." A tiny frown crinkled around his mouth, but Fergus tilted his head toward the village center and handed one of the jugs to Gary. "Water." 

Reluctantly, Gary followed him back to the well. The village was quiet; the children had disappeared and no one was wandering among the shops now. Fergus let the bucket down on its chain, hauled it back up, and filled the first jug with the water. He handed it to Gary and was lowering the bucket again when Gary felt something walk over his feet. Startled, he dropped the jug, dumping water all over Cat. 

"Sorry, buddy." Gary bent down to retrieve the indignant tabby, but it darted between his legs and out of the clearing, back toward the house. 

"What--" Fergus began, but Gary was already hurrying after Cat, his jug forgotten on the ground. "Gary, what are you doing?" Puffing, Fergus overtook Gary a few yards from the garden that fronted the house. Cat had disappeared through the curtain. Gary was determined to follow, but Fergus grabbed his arm, refusing to be shaken off. "What troubles you?" 

"Something's going to happen," Gary insisted. "I gotta--" 

"MacEwan!" Both of them whirled at the booming call. A barrel-chested man, shorter than Gary but with thicker arms and legs, lumbered up the path. 

"Oh, damn," Fergus breathed. 

Gary frowned at him. "Friend of yours?" 

No answer; the man was upon them, arms akimbo as he stared down at Fergus with hooded eyes framed by a dark beard and thick brows. "Don't be telling me yer come here with more harnesses to sell. The last tore three days into the fall harvest." It was harder to understand this guy than anyone yet; his words were thick in Gary's ears and his brain was slow to process them.   
"No, today I brought something very fine. I thought particularly of you when I first saw it." Fergus pawed blindly through his pack, locking eyes with the newcomer as if his gaze could will the man into immobility. Finally, he extracted the dagger he'd tried to sell Gary the day before. "From farthest India, it--" 

The man snorted and pushed past Fergus. "I have a knife, MacEwan." 

Gary's frown deepened as Fergus darted between the man and the opening to the house. He held up his hands, palms out. "Truly, Mark, you do not want to go in there." 

"'S my house, man, get out of the way." A sweep of the log-like arm sent Fergus stumbling into the nearest tree. His head hit the trunk with a _thump_ , and Gary hurried over to help him stand. 

"Why shouldn't he go in?" Gary asked. 

Before Fergus could do more than shake his head, the man bellowed again from inside the hovel. 

"What have you done? Get her out of here, now!" 

"Mark, no. Tolan is ill." Anna's voice was high-pitched and shrill. 

"No thanks to her, just as my daughter is dead, no thanks to her! She's cursed us, I tell you, and I know how to stop it." 

Gary rushed to the doorway, Fergus stumbling behind. "Take care. You do not understand this." 

He understood enough. Cat had gone into the little house; he should have followed it all the way. He was reaching for the curtain when everything happened at once. He heard Morgelyn's voice, loud and clearly annoyed. "For heaven's sake, Mark, what are you--" She finished in a gasp, but Gary couldn't make it inside, because Cat came flying out, leaping against Gary's knees. Morgelyn followed, stumbling; she would have fallen if Gary and Fergus hadn't reached out and caught her. Gary twisted toward the doorway, toward the threat, and flying spittle hit him in the face. 

"Stay out of my house, and take your witchcraft with you!" The man hadn't been lying about having a knife. He waved it in their direction, point forward. 

"Mark, no! She is not like that!" Anna's head peeped out from behind her husband's bulk, but he kicked her back into the room. 

"Silence, woman!" 

Shaking off her friends' hands, Morgelyn turned back toward the house and called, "Anna, do just what I showed you!" 

"I said begone!" Mark thundered. He narrowed the gap between them. Gary could smell rot in his teeth and see the dirt caked and cracking on his hands. At that point, he would have gladly done as instructed, but Morgelyn lifted her chin, meeting the man's eyes in a black hole of a stare-down that sucked away Gary's breath. 

"You will kill your child," Morgelyn finally retorted, and spun on her heel. Without another word, without a look, she hurried past the others, past the bakery and out onto the village common, making a beeline for the forest path that led to her home. Gary followed, but Fergus stopped to collect his pack. 

"What happened in there?" Gary demanded. She didn't answer, just kept walking, so fast that Gary had to take extra-long steps to overtake her. He planted himself in her way as they passed the bakery. Her lips were pressed together, needle-thin, and her eyes were clouded with anger. "What did he--?" Gary broke off when he saw the blood trickling out between the fingers she held clamped over her right arm. 

"Pay it no mind," she told him from between clenched teeth. "We should leave." 

"Did he cut you?" Gary gestured at the man who was still watching them, glowering from the road that led to his tiny cottage. Anna was nowhere to be seen. 

"It is not what you think, Gary." 

What the hell was he supposed to think? 

Huffing, Fergus joined them. "Home, now." 

There was no way Gary was going to just let this thing go. "He hurt you, he can't do that. You were trying to help!" 

Morgelyn's eyes, solemn as Ash Wednesday, held him rooted to the spot. "'Tis no matter." 

It was a very great matter indeed, but he had no idea how to handle it. From out of nowhere, a crowd began to gather, the children from the impromptu storytime joined by shopkeepers who drifted out of their stores. At Gary's side, Fergus fidgeted. "Let us be gone," he insisted, his eyes wide as he nodded back over his shoulder. 

Mark had followed them, ranting some nonsense about curses and witchcraft. Gary couldn't make out half of it. There were murmurs and questioning eyes all around them, but none too close, yet; people were keeping a wary distance from the strange scene. Gary pointed over Morgelyn's shoulder. "Shouldn't there be a--I don't know, a sheriff or something, somebody who can stop this? That guy oughta be locked up." 

Craning her neck in the direction he pointed, Morgelyn clutched her arm in tighter. Her face went from warm brown to almost ashen. Fergus put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her forward, but Mark moved more quickly than Gary would have thought possible and planted himself in front of them. "You will answer for this, Morgelyn." 

"Answer for what?" Gary started heatedly, but Fergus overrode him, raising his voice. 

"You have what you wanted, now let us pass." 

Heedless of the circle that was starting to close in on them, Gary pushed himself between the lunatic and his friends, the only friends he had in this place, while Mark brandished his knife to get the villagers' attention. "She's cursed my family, I tell you! First my daughter, and now my son!" 

"You cared little enough for your daughter while she lived." Though quiet, Morgelyn's words carried through the crowd. Gary blinked at her for a split second, but whirled back when Mark took a step closer. 

"You keep away from her!" Gary spread his arms wide, keeping Fergus and Morgelyn behind him. There was a muffled whimper on his right; two little kids had their faces buried in their mother's skirt. Why were they all just watching? "Somebody stop this guy, he's crazy!" 

"Who are you to interfere in the business of this village?" Mark snarled, raising the knife. 

Gary's voice rose, cracking on his incredulity. "It's business to attack someone who tried to help your kid?" 

Mark's eyes glittered with suspicion. The crowd seemed to pull in even closer. There was nowhere to run, and no one seemed inclined to help. 

"Pay him no mind; he does not understand our ways." Fergus let out a half-hearted obsequious chuckle that convinced no one. "He hails from a remote island west of Ireland, and he...he came here...uh..." 

"By the blood of our savior, Mark, what have you done?" The new voice tolled from behind Gary with the command of a church bell. Its accent was just as thick as the others', but it froze Gary in place and popped goosebumps on his arms. 

The crowd behind them parted. Jaw twitching, Mark brought his knife down. The man who strode through the circle of villagers was dressed in heavy brown robes that reached to his ankles and a cowl that nearly engulfed his head. "Good heavens, child," he mumbled when he saw Morgelyn. She was hard-pressed to keep her composure now, Gary saw; there was a watery sheen in her eyes, and her chin dimpled with the effort to keep her emotions at bay. The newcomer pushed his cowl back, and Gary's jaw dropped halfway to the ground. In mute stupefaction, he watched Fergus shuffle aside, giving the man room to reach for Morgelyn's arm and pry her covering hand free. 

"'Tis only a scratch," she insisted quietly, head tipped down. 

The priest turned a scowl on Styles. "I thought you knew better than to live by superstitions and old wives' tales." 

"My son is ill," Mark growled, not unlike an angry guard dog. "'Once again, sickness has invaded our village. She's cursed us, I tell you, her with her potions and spells!" 

Morgelyn shook her head, her voice more strained than Gary had heard it yet. "Father, I did no such thing." 

He held up a hand, and she fell silent. "Of course not. " Turning to the knife-wielding psycho, he said, "If your son is ill, Mark, perhaps you should go tend to him." 

"Woman's work," Mark spat. 

The older man raised a smoke-grey eyebrow. "Then why interfere when a woman tries to do it?" 

Caught in his own logic, Styles scowled at the ground. He held his arm stiff at his side, still clutching his knife, but he made no move until another rough-looking man clapped him on the shoulder, jerking his head toward the tavern. The two stalked off together. 

Heaving a sigh, the priest put a hand to Morgelyn's elbow, steering her toward the villagers. "You'd best not walk home like that." He paused when he saw the woman with the kids, who were peeping out at him now. Lifting his voice so that even the people behind him could hear, he said, "Take the little ones home, and spread no word of this foolishness." 

"Come." Fergus nudged Gary, but he was too stunned to move. The villagers were dispersing, melting away like April snow now that the show was over, but Gary kept his gaze fixed on the back of the man who was leading Morgelyn away. His totally overwhelmed brain was trying to make sense of some part of this, any part of this, but it couldn't even form a coherent sentence. 

Insistent tugging on his sleeve finally broke his trance. "Now, Gary." 

He pointed toward the priest. "Who-who-who--" 

"Now you are an owl?" Throwing his hands up, Fergus started after the pair. 

Gary trotted after him, able to move only because he was sure now that none of this could be real. He must have wandered onto a movie set somehow. "Who's that?" he demanded. 

"Father Ezekiel. Come on, man," Fergus called over his shoulder, for Gary had stopped again. 

"E- _zeke_ -iel?" No wonder he--oh, for crying out--Gary started when the church bell rang. 

"What ails you?" Fergus was back, pulling at his arm. "'Tis the Angelus, nothing more. Come." 

Gary followed, his thoughts whirling. Sleeping on the ground was one thing. No showers, toothbrushes or indoor toilets, he could handle. Chuck and Marissa as characters off of the History Channel, he could eventually get used to. 

But Crumb, the former Chicago Police Detective, as a priest?

That was more than he could wrap his brain around. 


	7. Chapter 7

_Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie milde,  
Lest suddaine mischief ye too rash provoke:  
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde,  
Breedes dreadful doubts; Oft fire is without smoke  
And perill without show._  
~ Sir Edmund Spencer

The rectory was a bigger house than Morgelyn's, bigger by far than most of the village cottages. There were rooms, curtained off in dark wool, at each end of the main hall. The main room held a long trestle table, shelves and chests for storage, a few books, and a pantry area with food and cooking tools. The window openings let in the afternoon light, but even the brisk fire in one corner of the room couldn't brighten the ominous mood that sat like a weight on Gary's shoulders. Dirty rushes slid and crackled under his feet as he wandered restlessly from one end of the hall to the other, while the priest--Father Crumb, Gary thought with a shake of his head--sat on the far side of the table, wrapping a clean strip of linen around Morgelyn's arm. Fergus slouched in the open doorway, glowering.

"Stop pacing, Gary." Morgelyn let out a quick, stiff sigh as she turned back to the man who was bandaging her arm. "Father, this is more than is necessary."

Shuffling to an uneasy halt, Gary heard an all-too familiar grunt in response to Morgelyn's protestations. He turned his back on the pair and stared out the window at the little churchyard. Cat had followed them into the rectory, and it rubbed against Gary's leg. For the life of him, he didn't know what it wanted him to do. He knew he was supposed to be unobtrusive here; he understood why, now. But after what had happened, he couldn't sit still. He was having a hard time even standing in one place without unleashing a furious rush of questions. Not that anyone here would have answers for him. Morgelyn didn't seem to understand, any more than he did, why he'd come at this point in the story, at what seemed to be the tail-end of the village's history, if things kept going the way they were. And even if he could save what was left of it, what would be the point? And why couldn't he have done more, known more, been better prepared? That guy had hurt her and, except for the priest, no one had protested. Things seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket around here, and he didn't have a clue how to stop it.

He turned back to the pair at the table as Father Ezekiel tied off the strip of fabric and sat back, asking, "Is Tolan Styles seriously ill?"

"He has the same cough and fever as his sister did." Morgelyn pulled her sleeve down over the bandage, which showed through the rip the knife had made. "I thought, because Anna came to me earlier this time, there would be some way to save him, but now--" Blinking hard, she kept her gaze focused downward, and Gary couldn't read what it was she had left unsaid. He moved to the table, placing both hands flat on the rough wooden surface as he leaned forward, trying to catch her eye.

"I still don't understand what that was all about." It took an effort, but he kept his voice gentle. "You were trying to help that man's son. Why would he hurt you?"

Morgelyn bit her lip and bent her head even further. Gary looked to the other men, but Fergus only shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, then twisted one big toe in the dirt. Father Ezekiel rose with another faint grunt and went to tease the fire with a poker. 

"Somebody help me out here," Gary insisted, nearly growling in his frustration. 

"Tell him," Morgelyn said quietly, without looking up. 

There was another heavy stretch of silence, which Fergus finally broke. "It is merely an old superstition," he said with a feigned shrug. He watched Morgelyn rather than Gary as he continued, "They say that if a witch has cursed you, the only way to break the curse is by shedding her blood."

Gary's mouth opened and closed twice before he could get the words out. "Wi--a wi--shedding her _blood_?"

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Pricking her finger might do, if you could get a witch to sit still."

Mark Styles had spat out the word, but Gary still couldn't believe that he had been serious, nor that Fergus was now. On the other hand, no one was contradicting him, and Morgelyn continued to sit still as a statue, her face shadowed. He reached across the table to touch her arm, just to get her attention. She jumped a little as he asked, "What does he mean, a witch?"

She finally met his gaze, and he saw a shadow flit through her eyes, then disappear. "You do not know what a witch is?" Fergus asked, striding over to join the pair. At that moment, Cat leapt into Morgelyn's lap, and she stared down at it, then started stroking its head and back, tentatively at first, then with more relaxed movements. 

"Well, yeah, I think I do. You believe that stuff?" He looked from one to the other, but they were both serious. Even Father Ezekiel, who had abandoned all pretense of ignoring them and simply stood near the fire watching, nodded slowly. "You think people fly through the air on broomsticks and cast spells?" He turned his incredulity full on Fergus. "You think _she_ does?"

"Of course not," Fergus said, pointing out the door, "but he does. Mark Styles thought he was protecting his family."

"How would hurting her help his family?"

"It cannot Gary, of course it cannot." Morgelyn's voice was steadier now, more like her own. Cat turned to regard him with its trademark indecipherable gaze. 

"That doesn't matter; what matters is what he believes," Fergus said, and Gary got the feeling this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.

"But you're not a witch," Gary said to Morgelyn, though not as firmly as he meant to. Their eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking about that crystal ball back in her cottage. But no one other than Fergus knew about that.

She blinked, and a ghost of a smile appeared. "No, I do not suppose I am. Neither have I cursed anyone in the village."

Fergus's jaw tightened. He seemed about to say something, but Father Ezekiel cleared his throat and shot an arrow-sharp gaze at Morgelyn.

"We should have spoken of this sooner." He still held the poker in his hand, and he tapped it against his leg as he spoke. "What happened today would have come about sooner or later. I am afraid Styles is not the only one in the village who harbors suspicions. There are rumors flying about; I do not know who started them, but your behavior soothes no one's fears."

Cat leaped to the floor as Morgelyn stood, her expression startled. "Father, what are you talking about?" 

"You should know these people; you have lived among them longer than I have. You know how they think." Although his voice was calm, his brow was furrowed, his expression deadly serious. He set the poker down on the hearth, and when he straightened he approached Morgelyn, one finger held up. "First of all, you are an unmarried woman keeping company with men, and right now, I cannot tell which of your friends is stranger," he added, shooting a pointed glance at Gary, then at Cat, who yowled and darted out the front door. Another finger came up. "Second, you make no secret of the fact that you can read, and even write, more than one language."

"Wait a minute, what's wrong with that?" Gary wanted to know. Fergus rolled his eyes.

"I am a woman," Morgelyn answered. "And here in this place, it is considered unseemly for a woman to read and write." Her deliberate gaze told Gary that he needed to be careful with his questions; obviously what he thought of as normal wasn't going to wash here in the Fourteenth Century.

"Some would even say it is immoral," Father Ezekiel added, and Fergus nodded grimly. 

The thought seemed to startle Morgelyn even further, and she turned back to the priest. "You have always encouraged me to learn."

"I did. I think perhaps I was wrong. Not that I agree with those who would have women ignorant of the world of words, particularly the word of God. But there are those in the village who will see your talents and your learning as something to be feared, especially in someone who keeps herself separate and is--" He waved one hand at Morgelyn.

"Different," Fergus filled in, and no one contradicted him.

"That is not the worst of it." Father Ezekiel took a step closer, lifted another finger. "There are the herbs you use to cure illness. More often than not, they work. You do better than some learned physicians, and many wonder how that is possible. There is your sharp tongue."

"I do not have a sharp tongue!" One hand flew to her hip as Morgelyn's eyes flashed; Gary had to stifle a grin. Anything was better than the quiet defeat of the graveyard and the past few minutes.

It didn't intimidate Father Ezekiel at all. "Is it true that you told Simon Elders that his garden would never grow?" he pressed. 

"The man is addled in his wits. He had half his flowering plants in direct sunlight and the vegetables in permanent shade! Anyone in possession of his senses would know that he would not succeed. I was just trying to help him!"

"I realize that, but now he thinks it has failed because of what you said." Morgelyn's eyes widened as he closed the remainder of the distance between them, putting one hand on her shoulder. "I am trying to warn you, child. Your behavior is causing suspicion, and while I certainly do not share Styles's cowardly conviction, I have to admit that your healing abilities are uncanny, especially for someone your age. Your grandmother said as much to me once; she worried over you, you know." He paused; his steely gaze flitted to Gary and then to Fergus before he added, "As do I. You must be careful about what you cause others to think, but be even more careful about where you place your faith. Some of those books you read contain stories of the old times before people in this part of the world knew God and our Savior. I would hate for your soul to fall upon evil."

Bemused shock changed to faint horror; Morgelyn stared up at the older man with her mouth open. "Father, they are only books. I would never--" Shaking her head when the words wouldn't come, she finally whispered, "Evil?" 

The room went cold, as if they'd all been plunged into an icy lake. Gary glanced at the fire, half-expecting it to go out.

"I know that your heart is in the right place. But in your desire to help, you must take care that you do not cross the line between honest use of God's creation and enchantments that interfere with His will." 

"You think that I--that I would--" As the normally quick-tongued Morgelyn fumbled for words, it was clear to Gary that his new friend was more than just surprised by what the priest was saying. She was hurt by the warning, almost as hurt as she'd been by the knife. She looked over at Gary and Fergus, pleading for support. 

"I think you got this all wrong," Gary told Father Ezekiel. The older man dropped his hand from Morgelyn's shoulder and narrowed his dark eyes. "She would never hurt anyone, and she's not the kind of person to go doing the kind of stuff you're talking about."

The frown deepened. "Not intentionally," Ezekiel acquiesced. "But the devil has devices that are attractive to those who long to do good, and he can warp a good heart to his own ends."

Morgelyn closed her eyes. "I promise you, I have done no evil."

"My point, child, is that you may do evil without knowing it, without willing it, if you let yourself be fooled by the devices of the devil."

Gary didn't even know where to begin arguing the theology of that one. He could see doubt playing on Morgelyn's face, and he wanted to convince her that nothing she had done, not even bringing him here, could possibly have been evil. Weird, yeah, but not evil. Before he could say anything, however, the door opened and two imposing figures entered the room. 

"Father Ezekiel, I see you have guests." The man who spoke looked younger than the Crumb-priest, dressed in robes that were similar in style, but woven of a cloth that looked, even from across the room, to be of higher quality. Taller, trimmer, with hair that was deep steel grey to Ezekiel's white, he had an aquiline nose, which, combined with his self-consciously dignified bearing, leant the impression that he was gazing down upon a class of lesser beings. His gaze flickered around the room's occupants as Morgelyn moved around the table, so that she was standing between Gary and Fergus.

Father Ezekiel drew the corners of his mouth in tight. "Excuse us, Father Malcolm. I did not intend to put you out. Welcome, Lady Nessa," he said, with a deference that surprised Gary. There was a strength underneath it, though, that was more like the Crumb Gary knew; it was just that he wasn't used to seeing it hidden beneath such a smooth veneer.

"I would not dream of missing the chance to meet such interesting people." The woman who accompanied Father Malcolm stepped easily out from behind him, surveying the trio at the table as if they were a curiosity, or animals at the zoo. She was miles ahead of any of them in the clothing department; the saffron dress she wore was trimmed with gold braid and swished when she moved; Gary guessed it was silk. Her hair was pulled back under a wimple or a veil of some sort, and with her high cheekbones and sharp features, it made her look almost as severe as the second priest. But then she smiled, and it seemed like a nice enough smile to Gary, especially since it was directed right at him. 

When no one introduced him--and Gary certainly didn't know how to introduce himself--she turned the smile on his friends. The lady's voice was clipped, precise, different still from all the others Gary had heard. "Fergus, of course, I know. Your reputation as a bard and a merchant proceeds you." Fergus swept a half-hearted bow. 

"And Morgelyn." The lady waited for a moment, but Morgelyn made no move, said no word. She stood next to Gary as if frozen, clutching her arm against her side. "I heard about what happened earlier. You poor child. But perhaps you have found yourself a protector?" The woman turned her smile back to Gary, and this time it reached her dove-grey eyes.

"And who have we here?"

"This is a friend, Lady Nessa." Fergus pulled a Vanna White move, indicating Gary with a sweep of his arm. "He was rescued from a shipwreck a few miles up the coast. He travels with me, seeking his home and family, for he cannot remember who or where they are."

Open-mouthed, Gary goggled at Fergus. Of all the soap opera clichés.

"Poor man, look at him, even in the presence of your ladyship, he cannot remember a thing. Except his name, of course." Fergus nudged Gary with his elbow.

He blinked away from Fergus. "Oh, uh--Gary. Gary Hobson."

"How very extraordinary." Her smile didn't fade. 

Gary raised his hand, but then pulled it back when he realized that handshakes weren't done here, at least not between men and women. "Bow," Fergus prompted through clenched teeth. Gary did so, trying not to wince. His ribs still hadn't fully recovered from yesterday's extended spin cycle. Beside him, Morgelyn went even stiffer, and Gary wondered if Fergus had steered him wrong. 

"Perhaps I can help you." Light sparkled in Lady Nessa's eyes, like sunlight on the sea. "I have many contacts throughout the country, and your family must be looking for you. Your wife must be worried unto death."

"I don't think I'm married. I mean, I think I would remember something like that."

"Of course you would," she said kindly, fingering the jewel-encrusted necklace at her throat.

"With all due respect, Lady Nessa," Morgelyn finally said, the emphasis on "due" so subtle that Gary thought he'd imagined it, until he ventured a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw the set of her chin, "we have other business to attend to. Your offer is appreciated." She slipped her arm through Gary's elbow and drew him forward, past the imposing woman and toward the door. "Thank you, Father," she added to Ezekiel, who still stood at the hearth, watching them with an indecipherable expression. "You have been very kind."

"I hope that you will take my words under advisement," he told her gravely.

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded. "Thank you," she said again, and they left. She dropped Gary's arm as soon as they were clear of the rectory yard. Tension and anger radiating from the stiff set of her shoulders, she strode off on her own, moving quickly down the slope, through the center of the village, and onto the forest path back to the cottage. 

Puffing to keep up, Fergus waited until they had crossed the bridge and were safely in the shelter of the trees before he said, "You could have at least curtsied to her."

Morgelyn whirled and came to a dead stop, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I will do no such thing. She is not my landlord, nor will she ever be, and she is most certainly not my better."

"But for the sake of appearances--"

"I will not grovel at the feet of that woman for the sake of anything." Moving farther down the path, she muttered, "The pair of you, bowing and scraping as if you were kitchen boys, appeared completely ridiculous."

Gary had officially hit the wall. "You know," he said, leaning against a tree and closing his eyes. "I could really use a program, here."

"A what?" Morgelyn's voice, less irritated than curious now, came from the vicinity of his elbow.

He blinked at her. "A program," he repeated. One hand came out, then flopped back down to his side. "You know, can't tell the players without a...never mind." After another pause, during which he could feel both their gazes but could not meet their eyes, he added, "I just meant that I feel like a fool, not knowing anyone and not understanding most of what's going on here. This isn't supposed to be a spectator sport. I should be doing something."

"You are no fool," Morgelyn said. "We would feel the same in your world." Fergus nodded.

But it had all become too much to figure out, and they weren't in his world. That was the whole point. "I feel foolish," he told Morgelyn as he sank down and sat on the forest floor, "because I have no idea what the hell is going on, or who any of these people are." He took a deep breath, absently sifting dry pine needles through his fingers as he stared up at her. "I still don't understand why that guy wanted to hurt you. What was all that about witchcraft? Your Father Ezekiel looks exactly like somebody else I know. And that other pair, who were they, and why don't you like her, and why did he look at me like I'm a fish on his hook?" 

Morgelyn sat down next to him. "I should have told you more. If I'd had any idea what was going to happen, I would have, but I thought we would have more time." She, too, leaned back against the tree. "Now I know not where to begin."

"Well, try, would ya? The beginning is always good."

"Don't tell her that," Fergus said, "or we shall be here until nightfall." Morgelyn stared up at him for a moment, then drew her arms into her lap, covering the bandage and torn sleeve with her hand. Fergus's scowl deepened, and when Morgelyn spoke, he turned away with a frustrated huff.

"That woman you met, Lady Nessa? She is the lady of the manor."

"She seems nice enough."

"Oh, she is. For a tyrant," Fergus said.

"She is beautiful, I will grant you that." Morgelyn fingered the torn edge of her sleeve. "But her beauty hides a heart set only on wealth and power. If she was in Gwenyllan, she must want something. She has been hovering around the village like a bee after nectar since her husband died. Edward Tillman was not a bad man; he left us in peace. But he died of the pestilence, and his widow is an ambitious, greedy woman. For some reason I cannot fathom, she has set her sights on getting control of the village."

"But she can't make them her serfs, can she?" Gary asked.

"No, but they are free to become so, if they choose."

"Why would anybody want to do that?" For a lot of the people Gary had met here, freedom seemed like the only worthwhile commodity they possessed. He couldn't fathom why anyone would voluntarily give that up.

"For protection from disease, drought, anything she can think of. They are afraid. The past few years have altered everything."

Things were starting to make a weird kind of sense. "So, with those kids getting sick, that's more than just a virus to these people," he mused. "They think it's a curse, and they don't just want someone to blame. You think they'll turn to her?"

"And give away all they have. If I could only show them that the disease can be cured, that the true threat is Nessa's ambition, perhaps the village can yet be saved."

"And you think that's why I'm here, to save the village?"

"No!" Fergus said at the same time Morgelyn nodded.

"Yes," she said emphatically, and Fergus paced a few steps away, muttering under his breath. 

Great, Gary thought; just when he was starting to understand this, they'd started feuding again.

"I think you can help convince them not to accept Lady Nessa's offers of protection in exchange for their freedom, and the freedom of their children, for generations. The whole village would disappear under her mantle."

"But they don't even know me," Gary said, thinking of the cold stares of the group that had gathered earlier. "Why would they listen to me?"

"Because you are a good person," said Morgelyn, as if it was as simple as that. Gary wrapped an arm around the ache in his side, his reward for being a good person. He was about to tell her he still didn't understand when Fergus came to a stop before them, checking nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the village. 

"Could we do this in a safer location? Home, perhaps?"

"The woods are safe," Morgelyn told him, picking a sprig of small yellow flowers from a scraggly plant that grew over the ground, here and all around them. She twirled it between her fingers. "St. John's Flower," she said with a faint smile. "It has bloomed right on time."

It looked like a weed to Gary. "What's that for?"

"Tomorrow, Midsummer's Day, is also the feast of St. John. This plant always blooms this time of year. It makes a salve for wounds and sunburn--" Morgelyn stopped short, blinking up in surprise when Fergus reached down and snatched it away. 

"'Tis also used as protection against demons," he snapped. "Against evil. Against witches." He tossed it away and stalked off down the path. 

"Fergus, what ails you?" Morgelyn stared after her friend. 

"Let's go." Scrambling to his feet, Gary offered Morgelyn a hand up. Maybe getting away from the village wasn't a bad idea. He didn't want any more run-ins with knife-wielding villagers. "Home sounds good to me." For a brief moment, his eyes met Morgelyn's and she looked stricken. "I meant your home," Gary added quickly. They hurried to catch up with Fergus, leaving the flowers behind.  


  


* * *

  
__

_Witchcraft hath not a pedigree  
'Tis early as our breath  
And mourners meet it going out  
The moment of our death._  
~ Emily Dickinson

Fergus hadn't gone far before he'd stopped to wait under an oak that seemed, to Gary, like the Sears Tower of trees. When they rejoined him, they walked a few more minutes in tense, weary silence. Finally, looking askance at Fergus, Morgelyn murmured, "You might as well say it."

"What?"

"Whatever it is you are stewing about under that ridiculous hat of yours."

Gary swallowed a snort when Fergus readjusted his beret, brushing the feather off his shoulders. They left the river behind, moving deeper into the forest. Their feet shuffled through the remnants of last winter's oak leaves. 

"You do know, don't you, that Father Ezekiel is right?" 

Morgelyn came to an abrupt halt. "What do you mean?" 

Fergus stepped over a log and stood in front of Morgelyn like a lecturing older brother, both hands on his hips. "You need to be more careful about how you conduct yourself, and beware of people like Mark Styles and their accusations." He glanced up at the sky, or what could be seen of it between branches and leaves. "There is something more than your cures brewing in Gwenyllan; I do not know precisely what it is, but I have a bad feeling about it."

"Don't be ridiculous." Morgelyn brushed a hand in front of her, waving away his concerns. "Mark Styles and Simon Elders are forever drinking too much ale and spreading silly rumors. Last month they claimed they had seen a unicorn here in the forest. You heard Father Ezekiel; he said it was nothing more than chatter and superstition."

"Out there he did. In his own home he did not seem so sure, and that--" Fergus said, pointing at the torn sleeve peeking out from under her cloak-- "is more than mere chatter."

"But it is superstition," Morgelyn retorted, pulling her arm back into the folds of her cape. 

"And it leads to worse things, much worse." Worry clouded his face. "Morgelyn, I have heard stories, I have seen things with my own eyes, that would turn even your face white with fear. I know what happens when superstition and rumors turn into people's truths."

"Truth?" Morgelyn's eyes widened, and her voice sounded a little shaky. Small wonder, Gary thought, after what had just happened. "The truth is, nothing will happen to me, because they need me." 

Gary stepped closer, ready to intervene if necessary, but filled with a sick curiosity as well. What was Fergus getting at? Whatever it was, he was serious. And maybe scared, Gary realized, as Fergus's brow furrowed.

"Another truth is, you need them, and you have never understood that. You need to have them believe in you, and you are giving them cause to doubt you just by being who you are. You should not add to their doubt by cursing gardens." Fergus stabbed a finger behind him, in the general direction of the village, and Gary had to feint to the side to avoid being impaled by it. 

Morgelyn shook her head, shutting her eyes for a brief moment and completely rejecting whatever it was Fergus was trying to tell her. "I did not curse Simon's garden."

"You said something that he took as a curse because of the way you said it. Father Ezekiel is afraid for you, at the very least. I could see it in his eyes, and it scares me too."

"But he was talking about witchcraft," Gary protested. "There is no such thing." 

"There is here," Fergus told him, not breaking eye contact with Morgelyn. "It is an infestation, a sickness of suspicion. And there are those who would cure it by the most violent means possible."

"You are being foolish. Such things will not happen here." Dismissing Fergus with another impatient shake of her head, Morgelyn would have walked around him, but he grabbed her right arm as she moved to pass him. 

"I am sure they thought so in Poitiers as well." He leaned in close, his face nearly twisting in its intensity. Gary opened his mouth, but hesitated, unsure whether or not he should interfere. Yeah, he'd seen Chuck and Marissa go at it before, but never like this. Nothing they'd argued about had ever seemed to mean as much as this did. "I promise you, I am being a realist." Fergus's tight voice hissed like the breeze through the branches overhead. "I have seen what's to come. On the continent, fear of witchcraft spreads faster than the pestilence ever did. 'Tis horrible, the way people turn against each other. And the priests, the inquisitors which the Church, in its infinite wisdom, sends to weed out heretics, they force the accused to confess to the most dreadful things."

"I am no heretic!" Morgelyn's voice rose to near-panic.

"The accusations are all that matter. Horrible things, Morgelyn. Not just throwing curses at innocent villagers, but consorting with the devil, and drinking the blood of infants."

"Oh, c'mon," Gary scoffed, sure that Fergus was exaggerating. But he seemed to be alone in that opinion. Eyes snapping with a mixture of anger and fear, Morgelyn was standing up straighter by the moment, recoiling from Fergus.

"No one would ever believe that of me!"

Fergus refused to release her arm. "No one will have to believe it," he said. "You will confess to it all."

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth slightly open, before whispering, "I could never tell such lies."

"They will force you to tell them." Fergus took another step closer; Morgelyn backed away until her shoulders pressed against the wide bole of a tree. "They will hurt you until you would deny your own grandmother just to make them stop."

Side-stepping so he could see both of their faces, Gary reached out a hand to stop--what? What the hell was this, anyway? He halted, hand still outstretched, when Morgelyn gave her head a toss and tried a little more bravado. "This is not one of your stories, Fergus, and I am not a child you can intimidate with rumors."

"You do not understand. I was there." Fergus's fierceness softened, and he checked to see if Gary was paying attention. "In Poitiers. I saw what they did to her. I came into town and there were crowds of people lining the streets, all headed for the center of the city. At first I thought I had stumbled onto a festival. Then there was a roar. I turned around and the cart bearing the woman they had accused of witchcraft was right behind me. She was not even properly dressed. There were--" He shut his eyes and swallowed. "There were marks on her skin, for they had left bruises, and worse, and the people on the roads threw more than just harsh words at her. Rotted food and rocks." 

"Fergus, please." Morgelyn tried to wrench her arm free, but Fergus didn't even seem to notice. His gaze was focused between her and Gary, as if he could see the whole thing playing out again.

"She passed right by me. I saw her eyes, and there were no curses in them, no evil. Only terror. I felt she was asking me to help her, but there was nothing I could do. I cannot see that happen again." He gulped, then turned his unfocused gaze back to Morgelyn. "Not to you."

"It will not. It cannot, not here," Morgelyn gasped, still twisting her arm in his grip.

"Hey, calm down," Gary finally interjected. Morgelyn's eyes were wide, wild. It all sounded a bit hysterical, but she believed what Fergus was telling her, even if she didn't want to admit it. "C'mon, you're scaring her."

"I mean to frighten her," Fergus snapped. "She needs to understand what this means, and so do you." 

"I understand you perfectly well," Morgelyn began.

"You do not!"

"She's had enough for one day." Gary grabbed Fergus's wrist, squeezing it until he released Morgelyn's arm. Fergus looked at Gary, then his own hand, in surprise. Morgelyn pulled her arm back to her side and held the folds of her cloak closed over it with one hand. She inched away from Fergus, still staring at him.

Blinking, he seemed to finally come back to himself. "I am sorry, but you need to believe me. It can indeed happen here. That woman, they carted her to the middle of the village and they tied her to a post. I turned and ran like a coward, but I could hear her screaming." Running a hand through his hair, Fergus looked down at the ground and said softly, "They did what the Church always does to heretics. 'Tis happening everywhere, more and more, and the Holy Father has given them permission to do it."

"To do what?" Gary asked. 

Fergus directed a sigh in Gary's direction, and in the split second before he turned back to Morgelyn, Gary saw something in his eyes, a haunted torment that was unlike anything Gary had ever seen in Chuck. These were real people, with a history of their own, one so painful and recent that it colored every bit of their lives. 

Her arm free, Morgelyn sidled toward the path until she was between Gary and Fergus, her back to Gary. He couldn't see her reaction to what Fergus said next, except for a stiffening of her shoulders.

"The ones who bend, who confess, those they hang." The bard's voice was quiet; the forest had gone still. "Those who do not, they shatter, and then they burn what is left."

"B-burn--you're talking about burning people at the stake?" Gary asked, incredulous. Had that ever really happened? He thought, no, he knew that it had, but not to--not--"You think they would do that to her? Just for trying to help?"

"People are confused nowadays." Fergus started pacing the width of the path as he tried to explain. "They live in fear of the next catastrophe. They find convenient targets for the blame, people like--" He stopped and bit his lip, fixing Morgelyn with an apologetic look. "People like you."

Morgelyn stared back toward the village for a moment, then down at her arm. "What are you saying? What is it you think I should do?"

Clearing his throat, Fergus scuffed his toe in the dirt. "You are welcome to come with me, if you like."

"Leave?" She shook her head emphatically and started down the path. "Don't be a coward."

Fergus pushed past Gary, who stood paralyzed by confusion over the twists and turns the conversation was taking, unsure, as he had been for twenty-four solid hours, of his purpose here. Meanwhile, Fergus grabbed for Morgelyn's arm again, but this time she darted out of his reach, her eyes flashing a warning.

Fergus drew in a carefully controlled breath. "Morgelyn, please listen to me." 

Gary had been about to intervene for a second time, but the serious, pleading note in Fergus's voice brought him up short. It stopped Morgelyn, too; she crossed her arms, frowning back at Fergus, but the set of her mouth softened. She was listening.

"Four years ago, I could walk this coast from here to Dover, cross the Channel to Calais, and go all the way into Paris, and every night there would be a house that shone with welcome, friends who would take me in and give me food and company for the price of a story or a song." Fergus lifted his hand, fingers spread. "Now, I can count on one hand the number of those friends who remain. Some of them I saw die, some I buried, some I found under grave stones, and some left no trace at all. Whole families, whole villages, just gone." He wiped his hand through the air. "Now I walk through ghost towns, and the few welcomes that are open to me are more precious than gold."

"That is saying a great deal, indeed." Morgelyn teased, but her sarcasm had no bite. Gary saw an understanding pass between them, leaving him feeling more shut out and clueless than ever.

Fergus's mouth twisted into a wry smile, but then he continued, as solemn as ever. "Forgive me, my friend, if what I say hurts you, but I feel that I must make you understand. Something evil is afoot here. It began today, and I fear where it might lead. You can call me a coward, if a coward is someone who does not want to see his friend destroyed by that evil. It little matters what you call me, as long as you listen, and take care with your words and your deeds."

Shaking her head, Morgelyn held out her hand like a question. "What deeds? Helping people who are ill? That little boy was sick, and I will not leave him to die."

His jaw set, Fergus said, "You are not going back."

"As soon as I can get home and find the herbs I need, I most certainly am. I can find a better cure in Grandmother's book and get it to Anna without Mark ever knowing."

"That will not absolve you in his eyes. If his child recovers now, he will think it is because he drew your blood." Fergus held out a placating hand. "Please, this one time, let it be."

"A child is sick, Fergus, surely--" Morgelyn broke off, and Gary got the impression she was choking on her own weary distress. "It must be God's will that I help Anna's only child. Surely they will understand."

"And if they do not?"

Morgelyn turned a half-smile in Gary's direction, and what she said next nearly made him regret the encouragement he'd given her in the cemetery. "I will still try to help." With a flounce of her cape, she turned and started back down the forest path. 

"Damn," Fergus muttered under his breath. He stared to follow, but stopped long enough to raise an eyebrow at Gary, who still stood staring at the smaller man. "What?"

"That stuff about France. You weren't making that up, were you?" 

"It would be a poor joke if I was." With a shake of his head, Fergus hurried after Morgelyn.

Scratching the back of his head, Gary trailed in his wake, but though he wracked his brain for any tidbits from his history classes in high school and college, all he could come up with was the plot of a sitcom he'd seen in after-school reruns. Something about Darren and Samantha. "Everything I needed to know about magic, I learned from Bewitched," he muttered. 

Neither one of his companions responded. Fergus had caught up to Morgelyn again. They were back near where everything had started yesterday, near the rapids. Gary could hear the water crashing at the bottom of the falls, up around a bend in the river, and he veered to the forest side of the path.

"Everything has changed, you must see that." Fergus was speaking to Morgelyn's back; she was busy picking leaves off a vine that trailed over the rocks and wiry saplings along the river bank. "You cannot keep doing this."

"Doing what?" Facing them both, Morgelyn held up her handful of leaves. "What do you think this is, Fergus? What do you think I am?" Fergus blinked, taken aback, and she shifted her attention. "Gary?"

"Well, no, I don't think you're a witch." But it lacked the conviction that Gary intended, and he saw her shoulders droop a little. He kept hearing the water, and thinking of falling off a pier and ending up an ocean and half a millennium away from his home. How had that happened, if not by magic? What else could he call it? 

Still, that didn't mean she was a witch, did it?

"Fergus, you said you were my friend. Tell me you do not believe what Father Ezekiel believes."

"He doesn't know what to believe," Fergus countered. "He asked you to tell him, and you could not give him a clear answer, not the answer he wanted. How could you, with Gary standing right there? Where did he come from, if you are not--no, Morgelyn, wait--"

Throwing up her hands, she stalked off the path and stood on a broad stone facing the river. 

"What I believe does not matter," Fergus insisted. "You can fly on a broomstick for all I care. I know you are a good person, and however you managed him." He waved his hand in Gary's general direction. "However that happened, I would never tell anyone, and I would never think any less of you for it."

"I don't think she did it at all," Gary offered. 

Morgelyn whirled. "What?" There was no breeze, but the leaves in her hand shivered.

"I think you helped, but it wasn't you, any more than the paper is me. Someone else is pulling the strings here. And it isn't--" Gary hesitated, then pointed down at the ground, implying someplace even deeper. "It isn't him, either." Morgelyn's eyes widened, but he held her gaze, made sure they were in agreement about that much, at least. 

"No," she whispered. "No, not at all."

"What we believe does not matter," Fergus repeated. "What I care about is what everyone else thinks, because that is what will get you into trouble. You cannot return to the village right now. Styles will not allow you in his home."

"His son is dying, Fergus. Do you not believe he cares about his little boy? Do you not care?" As if that settled the matter, Morgelyn again resumed the path. Fergus, however, wasn't ready to let the debate end there, and their voices grew louder as he shouted at her back and she tossed replies over her shoulder.

"You are not going back."

"I most certainly am."

"You are staying home tonight, even if I have to chain you to the door post!"

"Ha!" she snorted. "I should like to see you try."

"I'll go."

Poised at the rocky stairway that led down the waterfall's hill, they both turned to stare at Gary. Fergus shook his head. "They don't know you." 

"Which means they might pay attention long enough to listen. Besides, I have to convince people to listen to stuff they don't want to believe every day."

"'Tis a noble offer, Gary, but you wouldn't know what to do," Morgelyn countered.

"You could teach me." 

She cocked her head at him, speculating. Fergus scoffed, "He could not tell a cowslip from a cabbage!"

"Look, if you two would stop arguing with everyone in sight for a minute, you'd figure out that you're both right." Gary turned to Morgelyn. "You can't go back there, not right now, anyway."

Her chin tilted up. "You cannot--"

"I can stop you, and I will if I have to, but you know he's right. And you--" Fergus's smirk vanished when Gary turned a glare in his direction. "You don't want that kid to die, I know you better than that. We're going to help him. And I'm going to be the one to go." Gary pointed at Fergus. "Not you, either. That guy nearly knocked you senseless, even before all this started."

"But his wife already knows what to do. Didn't you show her?" Fergus asked Morgelyn.

"It was only a makeshift cure. I can put together better with these, and the supplies at my cabin. Besides, unless she can hide it from her husband, she will not do what I showed her if Mark tells her not to." Huddling in her cloak, Morgelyn shivered. "He will surely assure her submission with his usual finesse."

Gary's jaw tightened. The news around here just got better and better. "You mean he beats her."

"She is his wife," Morgelyn told him hollowly, not meeting his eyes. "It is a husband's right."

"Not where I come from."

"You are not where you come from," Fergus reminded him.

That was for damn sure. There was more here than Gary could fix, and without the paper, he wasn't at all sure what he was supposed to do. Save the boy's life? Stop anyone from accusing Morgelyn of witchcraft? Keep the dragon lady from taking over the village? He had a feeling whatever it was that had really brought him here wasn't going to let him go until he'd done what it wanted, and wondered if the nameless entity was having fun watching him turn in hopeless circles trying to figure it out. He looked up to find Morgelyn closer, scrutinizing his face. 

"What are you thinking, Gary?"

He sighed. One thing at a time, isn't that what Fergus had said earlier? Nodding at the collection of greenery in her hands he said, "Show me what to do."  


* * *

  
_The miserable have no other medicine_  
But only hope.  
~ _Measure for Measure_ , III.i

They were all quiet during the ride to Kelyn Gillespie's home, even Spike, who curled up next to Marissa and rested his head in her lap. Grounded by his weight and his warmth, Marissa leaned back against the seat of Chuck's rental car and closed her eyes. Although it was early in the afternoon, the morning had been exhausting; it would have been even if she had slept well. 

Or at all.

Crumb had insisted on driving, which was the best indication of just how much Chuck must have had to drink. The tension between the two men in the front seat was a fraying rope stretched taut, but in stasis, at least for now. Aside from a stilted discussion about the best streets to take and Crumb's occasional comments about traffic and the weather, they maintained the silence of distance, distrust, and exhaustion.

She didn't know how to bridge the distances between them, any of them. She couldn't even find it in herself to worry over Crumb knowing about the paper. All she knew was that it was her job to find Gary. They could deal with the side effects later, if he came back.

When Gary came back. When.

She didn't realize that she'd whispered that part out loud until Crumb asked, "When what?"

Her fingers stopped their absent scratching behind Spike's ears. "I was just thinking out loud."

Crumb's faint grunt wasn't entirely satisfied, but he left her alone. She wondered why hope was such a fragile thing, and why it couldn't be shared as easily as fear and sorrow. 

"It's the next house up on the right," said Chuck, and the car came to a halt. Chuck helped her out and offered his arm. With Spike there, she really didn't need any other guide, but Chuck's leading her up to the house was the first interaction approaching normal that they'd had. He was wearing a thin cotton shirt, no coat or sweater, and his skin was colder under her fingers than Spike's harness in her other hand. 

"It's a pretty big house, one of those Arts and Crafts numbers. If she's as young as you said, she must live with her parents." Chuck's commentary was matter-of-fact, but Marissa heard his weariness and confusion, heard the lost little boy who, under all his bravado and prickliness, just missed his best friend. She squeezed his arm tighter, hoping to reach and comfort that part of Chuck that hadn't frozen over the night before. There was no response that she could sense, just a warning: "Three steps up." 

They crossed a broad, wooden front porch, their footsteps creaking the boards and echoing off the roof above. Loud, bouncy music blared from inside, and it took two rings of the doorbell to get an answer. The music stopped, and a door creaked open.

"Hel--oh." Kelyn Gillespie's friendly greeting was quickly overridden with the same trepidation that had been there the day before when Marissa had met her in the office. Her voice was slightly distant, and Marissa guessed Kelyn was staying behind her screen door. "May I help you?"

Marissa stood up a little straighter. "Miss Gillespie, you remember me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. But who--"

"Zeke Crumb."

"Chuck Fishman."

They sounded like the goon squad. Marissa wondered if Kelyn would even talk to them at this rate. "We're all friends of Gary Hobson's."

"You heard what happened to him, right?" There was an edge in Chuck's words that Marissa understood. He didn't want to have to go through the whole thing again.

"What do you mean?" Kelyn asked, as defensive as she'd been the day before. 

Chuck either didn't notice or didn't care, because he pressed further, his voice tight. "You watch the news? Read the paper this morning?"

"No. I work at the library and I usually read the paper there. What do you want with me?"

Marissa tried to suppress the shudder that coursed through her, whether at the mention of a newspaper, or from the chilly fall wind, she couldn't have said. "Please," she asked, before Chuck could become more petulant, "may we come in and speak to you for a moment? I promise, it's important."

After a heartbeat's hesitation, Kelyn said, "All right." The screen door squeaked open. "But I have to leave in just a few minutes. They'll fire me if I'm late twice in one week."

Kelyn led them all inside, into vanilla-scented warmth and a room that, from the way their voices and footsteps echoed, seemed to be taller than normal, like the office at McGinty's. Chuck stayed at her side, as did Spike, and the two of them kept Marissa's shins safe as they negotiated their way further into the room, stopping on a soft rug that covered the hardwood floor. She felt like the filling in an overprotective sandwich. 

Kelyn didn't invite them to sit. In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, Marissa tried to find a way to begin. "Gary's missing," she finally said. "After you saw him yesterday, he--"

Chuck's arm grew hard as a rock under her fingers, and Marissa grabbed it tighter, surprised at how the words caught in her throat. Behind her, Crumb gave a little cough, a sound that was an offer to take over the explanations. Relieved, she stepped aside a fraction and let him do it. He outlined, very briefly, what had happened on the pier the day before. She distracted herself by gauging Chuck's reaction. She could have sworn he was getting colder, even inside the warm house. Crumb finished with, "They're still looking in the lake today, but there hasn't been any sign of him."

"Oh my God. How horrible." Kelyn's volume increased fractionally as she directed her words to Marissa. "Miss Clark?"

"Marissa."

"Marissa, I'm so sorry." 

There was no point in dismissing the sentiment; she was sure to hear it often enough in the coming days, unless--no, until--they found Gary. So she nodded, and, dropping Spike's harness, pulled the globe out of her bag. "When it happened, he was holding this." She held it in front of her, the metal base resting on her outstretched palm. "The divers found it right where he disappeared, and just before he fell in, he said something strange was happening to it. I was wondering if you could tell me anything more about it, other than what was in the letter that your grandmother wrote Lucius Snow." In the suspended moment that followed, something hovered in the air. Marissa couldn't name it, but it was there, real, weaving its way around her, around Crumb and Chuck, who stood close, suddenly expectant. Whatever it was replaced their disbelief, just for a moment, with a flicker of hope, and threaded shifting possibilities into the air around them. 

Kelyn's hand was just above Marissa's; she could feel the warmth radiating, the fluttering of air with her not-quite touch. Something in Marissa's heart stirred, a dream, or possibly a memory, but it was gone too quickly to be sure. Just as she realized that she was trying to remember something, Kelyn's hand withdrew. The spell was broken as soon as it was cast. Chuck's arm hardened again under her fingers, Crumb backed away a step, and Kelyn's voice turned colder, her walls going up again, even higher this time. 

"You think this thing--you think _I_ had something to do with what happened to your friend?"

Shifting her shoulders, Marissa forced herself onto firmer ground. "Not you, not on purpose, but your gift might have. That's why we need to know what this is."

"But it's just a silly family thing." 

"That's not exactly what your letter says. It hints at more. Just before Gary fell in the lake, he said it was changing color. Isn't there anything you can tell me about it?"

"All I can remember is that it sat in the hutch for the longest time, from the day my grandmother came to live with us. When she met Mr. Snow, she thought--he was different, like Mr. Hobson, he--" Kelyn hesitated. "He spent a lot of time helping people," she finally said, with suggestive emphasis on the last two words.

Chuck sucked in air between his teeth, and Crumb cleared his throat. "You know, I think I left the car unlocked. I'm gonna go check."

"Good plan," Chuck agreed, lifting Marissa's fingers off his arm with the opposite hand. "I'll go with you."

"You stay here." Crumb's command left no room for argument, and his footsteps stomped away. 

When the door closed, Marissa sighed and told Kelyn, "Chuck and I both know all about the paper. Crumb knows a little bit, but he doesn't really want to know more. You can tell us anything, anything that you think will help."

"But I can't--"

"Don't tell me you can't." While Marissa understood the younger woman's confusion, this was not the time for tea and sympathy. She was tired of everyone telling her what they couldn't do, didn't know, and wouldn't believe. Her voice rose of its own accord. "This is a matter of life and death, and you know something about Gary, enough to know you can't just let this be the end." 

Chuck's hand was on her arm. "Marissa."

"I'm sorry," Kelyn said in a small voice. "I wish I knew more. It really was just a knickknack. You can't believe that I would give Mr. Hobson something that would hurt him. I would never do that."

But she had to know more, there had to be more. "No one's accusing you of anything," Marissa said, fighting to keep her impatience at bay. "We want to know if there's any chance this could be part of what happened, if there's some reason for all this. And maybe some way for Gary to come back home." The word caught in her throat. She hadn't meant to choke up; not here, not now. Chuck's warning touch eased, and he rubbed her shoulder awkwardly. The weight of the globe was beginning to pull at her wrist, and she shifted it in her hand, thrusting it out further in Kelyn's direction.

"The light out on the lake is different," the girl said hesitantly. "Maybe that's what your friend saw."

Marissa wasn't about to put all this down to a trick of the light. "Kelyn, please, anything you can remember, anything at all, might help."

A slight pause, as if she really was trying, was followed by, "I'm sorry, there's nothing to remember. Just stories about bards and dragons and magic spells, the kind of stuff you read about in little kids' books. It's all mixed up now; Grandmother used to tell me bedtime stories, but they were just stories to put me to sleep, like lullabies."

Everything was slipping away. She was standing on that damn pier again, and Gary wasn't there, and he wasn't coming back, and she was fooling herself to think this was anything more than denial of the fact of what had happened. Spike's tags jingled softly as he turned his head, and Marissa shook off the fog of doubt cast by Kelyn's words.

No.

No, this couldn't be over, not just like this; there had to be something that would help her understand what had happened to Gary. Before she could frame another question, however, Kelyn said, "I really do have to leave for work now. I'm so sorry for your loss. I wish I could have been more help."

Half-numb, Marissa let Chuck steer her toward the door. This couldn't be the end of it, it just couldn't. "Please," she said, turning back, "if you think of anything, call us, even if it doesn't seem important." Fumbling with the harness, she put the globe back in her bag and pulled out one of the business cards they'd had made up for McGinty's. "Anything at all."

Kelyn took the card with chilly fingers. "Sure." But her tone said she was sure she'd never use it.

Marissa started when the door clicked to a close behind them. Every step away from the house was harder, her stomach sinking like lead. "I thought she'd be more help," she mumbled, the understatement of the year.

"Well, you practically accused her of murder," Chuck said. "Three steps down."

Marissa stopped on the pavement; she heard the engine turn over, but didn't move to the car. "Do you think she thought I meant--" 

"Nah, it's okay. It's just a dead end." Chuck broke off as Marissa wrenched her arm free. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

The unintended pun wasn't what had upset her. "It sounded like you giving up." She couldn't keep the accusatory edge out of her voice any longer. In stony silence, Chuck opened her door, but left her and Spike to find their own way into the car. 

Inside, Crumb gave a short grunt of greeting. The front door slammed, rattling the whole car. "So? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Chuck said flatly. "She doesn't know anything. All we did was make her feel guilty over something that has nothing to do with her."

Marissa reached under Spike for the seat belt clasp, fingers tightening around the cold metal buckle. "There's more. She knows more, she just doesn't know that she knows it. We surprised her, that's all, and she got defensive."

"Stop it, Marissa," Chuck snapped. "Just stop it, okay? This isn't doing any of us any good."

"It's not about us, it's about Gary."

"Don't start that--"

"Hey!" Crumb's booming voice cut them both off. "I've had about enough of playing kindergarten cop for today. What is it with you two, anyway?"

Neither one of them had an answer. Still fumbling, unable to fasten the seat belt that was right there in her hands, Marissa drew in one deep breath, then another. Finally the latch clicked, and she settled into her seat as the car pulled away from the curb. "This isn't over," she whispered, her eyes closed behind damp lashes, her teeth gritted. 

"Maybe not," Crumb acquiesced, "but for right now, how about both of youse give it a rest? Give yourselves a rest, too. I'm betting neither one of you got much sleep last night."

"I'm fine," Marissa muttered automatically, curling her fingers as she ran them over Spike's head. But she didn't move from her slump against the back seat. "Are we headed back downtown? Chuck?" 

"We're headed to your place," Crumb said decisively. 

"But--"

"No buts. I'll go see how things are going down at the lake. You get some rest. Where are you staying, Fishman?"

"I don't know." Chuck sounded as if he'd been cast adrift in a foreign ocean. "I thought maybe the bar, the--the loft--but--"

"Not that you wouldn't be okay on the couch or something, but I think the Hobsons said they're planning on staying there."

Marissa swallowed hard at that. She knew she'd have to talk to Bernie and Lois sooner or later. Maybe taking Crumb's advice and getting some sleep was a way of chickening out of that particular responsibility, but right now she just did not have the stamina for their grief or their questions. Even their kindness would be too much. 

Chuck's sigh told her that he felt the same way. "I suppose a hotel. Maybe the Blackstone," he said with a bitter laugh. 

Crumb didn't respond, and Marissa knew, right then, what he was trying to do. She wasn't sure it was such a good idea. But if she wanted to get to the real Chuck, the one who was hiding behind all this fear and loss, she'd have to keep trying, and she couldn't do that if he was off in some hotel. Remembering the lost little kid she'd heard in his voice earlier, she affected a casual tone that didn't fool anyone. "I have a guest bedroom. You could stay with me." He didn't respond, and she couldn't read his reaction. "Chuck?"

"I--uh--I have to get some warmer clothes, and my shoes are wrong. I need to go shopping."

Marissa could hear him in the hesitant words that meant nothing and said everything; he was still there, her friend, Gary's friend. She leaned forward, reaching out until she found his shoulder, and squeezed it once, just as Gary had done to her yesterday. "It's okay. Do what you need to do, but stay with me. Please."

"Yeah." She felt the muscles working as he nodded, and she released his shoulder. "Okay. Yeah," he whispered again. 

"Good," Crumb said. 

Once they reached her house, Crumb went into the kitchen to use the phone. Marissa waited in the living room with Chuck, who was planning to drive Crumb back to his own car at McGinty's before he did his shopping. Instead of curling up at his accustomed spot near the sofa, Spike paced between the kitchen entrance and the uneasy pair. 

"What's with him?" Chuck wanted to know.

"I think he knows something's wrong, and he's not sure if he's supposed to do something about it." Marissa snapped her fingers, and Spike came over to have his ears scratched. "Poor boy, you haven't even had a walk today, have you?"

With a listless chuckle, Chuck told her, "He just gave you a look that said, 'Duh, lady,' better than Bart Simpson ever could." 

They both went still for a moment at Crumb's exclamation, crackling with irritation. "Well, then put someone on the line who knows what the hell's going on!"

After that, his volume dropped. Chuck filled the ensuing quiet by telling her about his mismatched shoes. Through the buzzing of weariness and confusion in her brain, Marissa tried to smile at his offering of humor, but mostly it just hurt, this sign of how hard this blow had been for the normally clothes-proud Chuck.

"Anyway, I'm not sure how long it'll take to find what I need, so maybe it would be better if I stayed somewhere else," he finished weakly, still apparently unsure of his welcome. Shaking her head, Marissa decided to close the deal.

"I have an extra key." She went to the desk where she'd set her oversized purse, and removed a few items, trying to find the spare key chain in the general mishmash of cosmetics, wallet, cane, and gloves. "This way if I'm asleep or not here when you get done, you can make yourself at home." Extracting the key, she held it out with one hand and rested her other palm on Gary's globe, welcoming its smoothness, not knowing why she needed it at that moment. "You and Gary helped me move in here, so you should be able to figure out where everything is."

To her surprise, Chuck grabbed her hand along with the key. "I'll only stay if--if we--look, Marissa, I don't want to fight with you anymore."

"Why not?" she asked, bemused. "Because you feel sorry for me? Or because you're afraid of Crumb?"

"What I'm afraid of is losing you," he said, with a raw honesty that she'd only heard a few times from Chuck, and it turned her heart over. "I don't know if I can believe what you believe, and the way you're acting, it kinda scares me."

After a moment's pause to digest this, she said, carefully, deliberately, "I can't _not_ believe this, Chuck." 

"I know. It's just, we're at an impasse here, but I don't want it to be the end of us being friends. And I don't want to be here and be in your way, if I can't help." 

"You're not in the way, and it's not an ending. That's what I've been trying to tell you all day."

"That's not what I mean. You and Gary, you were my only real friends." Chuck's laugh was strange, a short, nervous clutch of air. "I mean, nobody out in California is even sane, let alone sincere, and except for Aunt Gracie, my own family is nuttier than a can of Planters. You guys were the only ones who ever made sense to me. I should have told Gary, a long time ago, but now it's just us."

This time, Marissa refused to let the past tense and the "just us" get to her. "Gary knows, Chuck; I think he always has." She squeezed his hand, releasing the key into his palm. "I do, too."

"Yeah? Okay." Relief laced through his voice, Chuck took the key before he let his hand drop, and they both sighed at the same moment. In the kitchen, cupboards opened and shut, and dishes rattled. "Crumb's right, you know. You look like hell. Go get some sleep." 

"You sound like hell," Marissa countered as she went to find out what Crumb was doing, "and yet you're contemplating a run to Marshall Fields." 

"Just long enough to get a pair of shoes that actually match, and maybe a coat."

They entered the kitchen to the glurb of liquid being poured, to glass clinking on glass. "There's no word yet," Crumb said before they could ask. "The Coast Guard and Search and Rescue are still looking. They'll keep it up at least through today, but there hasn't been any sign."

Even though Crumb sounded discouraged, the news left the faint hope Marissa had been holding onto all day fluttering anew. "No sign at all?"

"It's a big lake." Crumb pressed a glass into her hand. "Drink this, then kick off your shoes and lay down for a while, okay?"

Marissa sniffed at the glass. "Blackberry brandy? I keep this around for coughs."

"Oh, only for medicinal purposes?" Chuck teased. 

"It works," she told him. "My grandfather used to slip it to me when I was sick as a girl. I thought it was terribly wicked, but I liked it a lot better than cough syrup."

"Sounds like an After School Special. 'Marissa's Secret Addiction.'"

"Don't get any ideas."

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," Crumb grumbled.

"It isn't important. But I don't need this." She tried to hand the glass to him, but he pushed her hand away.

"You don't need to have your eyes popping open twenty minutes after you close 'em. Take it from your bartender, you need a drink."

She rolled her eyes at Chuck's muffled snort, but Crumb refused to leave until she'd taken a few swallows of the sweet, soothing liquid. She finally got them out the front door, Crumb promising to call later, or sooner if there was news, but Marissa wondered if she'd even hear the phone ring. She could already feel a warm haze spreading through her body. That was the price to be paid for drinking on an empty stomach, but at this point the fog was welcome. There was just too much to sort out on an overloaded brain and exhausted heart. Surely, she told herself as she went up to her bedroom and curled under an afghan, surely she would be better able to help Gary, to find him, when sleep had restored her equilibrium.


	8. Chapter 8

_Tavern-keepers were lumped with witches in folk belief._  
~ Milton Metzer

A while later--well into the afternoon, if the slant of the sunlight was any indication--Gary's head was buzzing with words like "infusion" and "lungwort." Sharp, earthy scents filled the cottage, and the table was buried under jars, bowls, dried and fresh plants, and more of those leather-bound, awkward books. Their pages were covered in drawings of greenery and flowers, labeled and described with such slanty, curliqued calligraphy that he wasn't sure he would have recognized his own name if it had appeared. One book seemed to be in Latin; Fergus assured him another was in English, but Gary couldn't make out half the words. A third book, though, was little more than a collection of small vellum pages stitched together with twine, creating a volume about the size of a composition book. And while Morgelyn was mindful of all her books, taking care to keep them clean and dry, shooing Fergus away when he tried to touch the pages with sooty fingers, it was the last one, the least impressive of all, that seemed to inspire her most protective instincts. 

Apparently they all contained recipes for whatever it was that was brewing in the kettle. Morgelyn kept referring back to them, first one, then another, as she mixed the leaves she'd picked along the river with a few of the stalks hanging from her ceiling and powders that she either found on her own shelves or directed Fergus to get out of his pack. To his credit, the peddler only griped once about the amount of money he could have obtained by selling the stuff somewhere else. Morgelyn informed him that the amount would just about cover a dozen bowls of rabbit stew, and he handed over the rest of the items without comment. 

Gary, who'd been scolded for blocking the late afternoon light when he'd sat down at the table, was perched on a trunk in the corner, as far away from the fire as he could get. The one thing he'd been able to help with was encouraging the smoldering embers of the cooking fire into leaping flames, starting with fresh kindling and then progressing to bigger logs. Now it was crackling nicely, and for the first time since his arrival he could claim to be more than warm enough. That job done, he'd kept himself out of the way. While he was curious about the books, and especially the one that seemed to be so important to his hostess, he decided it would be better to ask about them when she wasn't so preoccupied with measuring, grinding, mixing, and stewing. 

The crystal ball responsible for his journey sat on the closest shelf, and Gary absently traced the knotwork pattern at its base with one finger. He blinked when something seemed to happen inside the glass, but it wasn't anything like yesterday's display. Just a quick moment when he thought the swirling colors he'd seen before he'd fallen in the lake were back, but it was over so quickly that he was sure he'd imagined it. With a shrug, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched the pair at the table. Fergus was trying to read over Morgelyn's shoulder and drink from a pewter tankard at the same time.

"Keep your ale away," Morgelyn murmured, not even looking up from the hand-scrawled directions as she pushed Fergus's arm out of range. 

"I wish to help." 

"Bring me more rosemary. There is some growing in the garden out front."

"At your service." Fergus performed a mocking, overdone bow, sweeping the tankard out to one side, then stood up, scratching his head. "Rosemary is..."

"Spiky leaves and tiny pale flowers, bluish purple. Out in the sun, closest to the path." Fergus's dramatics were wasted on Morgelyn, who didn't even look up from her work as she pointed at the door. He looked at Gary, shrugged, and went obligingly out into the garden. 

Gary eyed Morgelyn warily, trying to decide what to say. She was preoccupied with more than just concocting a cure. Once in a while her hands would slow and she'd zone out for a few seconds, then blink or give her head a quick shake and get back to work. Finally, when she got up and walked to the back wall, only to stop in front of a high shelf with her hand frozen halfway to a large wooden bowl, Gary asked, "What's the matter?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. "I'm trying to remember--thank you," she said when he came over and handed her the bowl. Turning back toward the table, she didn't finish her thought. Gary followed her, and was about to ask again, when she finally admitted, without looking at him, "I fear I may make the same mistake twice."

"You mean the boy's little sister."

Morgelyn nodded. "What I did for her was not enough. Or it was wrong. I have these," she gestured at the books, "but they are not always a help for a disease I've not seen before. I wish I could remember everything Grandmother told me. I wish she had finished this." Her hand rested on the small, clumsy book, and Gary understood now why it was so important. "Sometimes it seems the cures we use just make things worse. There is so much we do not know."

"But you're trying, right? That's more than anyone else seems to be doing." He sat down next to her, straddling the bench. "I meant what I said this morning. If there's anything I've learned about helping people, it's that you can't give up, because there's always a chance you can do some good. The only way there's not is if you don't try at all." For just a moment, he thought how strange it was for him to be pep-talking Marissa. She'd probably said the same thing to him at some point. But then this other Marissa, who wasn't, looked him in the eye, and the feeling was gone. The corners of Morgelyn's mouth twisted up. 

"Very well, dragon slayer." With her short nod, the mood was broken. She held out a small, thick bowl containing a handful of dried leaves, emerald green even though there was no moisture left in them. Gary didn't know if he was supposed to stir it or eat it. "Use the pestle," Morgelyn urged him, nodding at a thick cylinder of stone, about the size of his finger, that sat on the table between them. "Powder these for me." 

Easy enough. He did it, handed the bowl back to her, and was surprised to find her watching him thoughtfully. "Did I do it wrong?"

She shook her head, her pensive stare unwavering. "You said you knew him."

Gary looked around the room, half-expecting someone to materialize. "Who?"

"Father Ezekiel." Her eyes were shadowed, hard to read. "You said you knew him. The way you know us. Not us, not him, but someone like him."

"Oh, yeah. He looks like my--" Gary hesitated. Calling Crumb his bartender, as if the guy's thirty years on the police force didn't matter, had always seemed disrespectful. On the other hand, he could just about imagine the snort that would erupt if he called Crumb his friend in the other man's hearing. "He's this guy who's helped me out before." Gary didn't mention that he'd helped Crumb, as well. Crumb had saved his life, and that tipped the scales beyond recovery as far as Gary was concerned. "He's--or he used to be--kind of like a sheriff."

"He made sure people followed the rules?" 

Gary nodded. "And that they were punished if they didn't."

Leafy stems in hand, Fergus came whistling through the open doorway, but stopped abruptly when he heard Gary. "Who is being punished?"

"Not you," Morgelyn told him dryly, and he looked relieved. He traded the plants for his tankard, propping one foot on the bench and resting an elbow on his knee. Morgelyn got up from the table to ladle the kettle's contents into the larger bowl, then brought it back to the table. Still standing, she stirred the leaves Gary had crushed into the liquid, watching it closely. For what, Gary wasn't sure. "Do you trust him?" she asked without looking up.

Gary worried at one palm with the opposite thumb while he thought about that one. Trust Crumb? The issue had always been whether Crumb would trust Gary, not the other way around. Difficult as it had been to get the guy to listen, though, he'd always come through in a pinch. "Yeah, I trust him. Crumb's okay."

Fergus choked on his ale. "Crumb?"

"That's his name," Gary said with a shrug. "Zeke Crumb. Or Marion. Depends on his mood, I think."

"Zeke. Like Ezekiel." Fergus's eyes widened. "No wonder he gave you such a turn."

"It's not just that." Gary had picked up the pestle again and was trying to twirl it between his fingers, as he would with a pencil, but it was too thick and short, and it went rolling through the rushes on the floor. "He looks just like the guy."

"And I want to know if he acts like Father Ezekiel," Morgelyn explained. She picked up the pestle and wiped it on her apron, but her hands stopped in mid-action. "Or perhaps it is the other way around?" Shrugging, she set the pestle back on the table. "The point is, Gary, you trusted us because we are like your friends. I was just wondering if what you knew of this Zeke Crumb could help me to--to--"

"To know if you can trust the good father," Fergus filled in. "I would not."

Morgelyn snorted and fetched a jug from one of the shelves. "You would not trust your own mother if she appeared in this cabin."

"This is true," Fergus admitted with a nonchalant shrug. "Of course, neither would I recognize her."

"You don't know your own mother?" To Gary, the matter-of-fact way Fergus said it was more surprising than what he'd said.

"I was abandoned at the abbey as an infant." Fergus spread his arms wide and plopped himself down on a bench. "I am blissfully free of family ties, and the whole world is my home."

Gary waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Morgelyn asked, "So, this Crumb is not like your other friends, but you know you can rely on him, is that what you mean?" She poured something from the jug into a tankard and handed it to Gary. "Elderberry wine," she told him when he sniffed at it. "It will strengthen your blood."

"I don't think I know anything anymore," Gary admitted. Fergus went to the shelves and came back with bread, tore off a chunk and handed the loaf over to Gary. "Crumb, he doesn't know about the paper, and he can be a pain in the neck sometimes, but I guess I always was to him, too, and we sort of..." Trailing off, Gary imitated Fergus and tore off some of the coarse, dark bread. "Yeah," he finally said, "I think I can count on him when the chips are down. When there's trouble," he added, when neither one of them seemed to understand.

"That is what I always thought about Father Ezekiel, but after today, I am not so sure." As she spoke, Morgelyn stripped leaves off the stalks that Fergus had gathered, then squashed the little green spikes between her fingers and tossed them into the mixture in the bowl. "We have had our disagreements, especially over these books, but still, I thought he was different."

"Different from what?" Gary asked through a mouthful of bread. He washed it down with a drink of the wine, sweet and pungent and unlike anything he'd had at home. He was getting used to that.

Morgelyn said, "From Father Malcolm, at least. Father Ezekiel has not been here very long. He was living near London, but when the pestilence struck, he came here to be with his sister, who lived in the village. She died, but he stayed to make sure her son was taken care of, and he has yet to leave."

"Father Malcolm is the rightful priest of St. Columba's church, and of the village," Fergus explained. "But some would say he gave up that right when he deserted those who needed him. There were many, many people who ran from the disease, including the priests." He halved his bread with a vicious rip. "Father Malcolm did so at the end, under the pretense of escorting Lady Nessa to the north."

Recalling the cold, assessing stare that Father Malcolm had trained on him earlier in the day, Gary decided that he officially did not like the man. "You mean he left while people were dying? Isn't it his job to help everyone, not just the rich?"

"It should have been." Morgelyn's mouth had gone tight, and she slapped the rosemary stalks on the table. 

"It certainly was not his job to help Lady Nessa," Fergus said.

"I hope God can forgive him that sin, for I certainly cannot," Morgelyn continued. "He left this whole village bereft. If not for Father Ezekiel, there would have been no one to give the last rites, to say the funeral masses, to comfort the dead and the living left behind. 'Tis hard to believe that Christ would have done the same thing."

Gary was hardly an expert in that department. "I don't think he would have," he said simply, and Fergus nodded in agreement.

"Father Ezekiel stayed, through all the months of hardship, and he has been here ever since. By rights, Father Malcolm could have asked him to leave by now, since this village hardly needs more than one priest, now that so many have--" The bowl weighting her arms, Morgelyn stared for a moment into the fire, then shook her head. "--have gone. But Father Malcolm has grown so ambitious that a village like Gwenyllan can hardly hold him, and he is willing to let someone else continue the real work of the parish while he presides at High Masses and consults with her ladyship about matters of worldly import." She poured the mixture in her bowl into a pitcher, then added wine and stirred. 

Gary thought about all the times he'd heard Crumb gripe about having to report to the mayor, and how it interfered with his real police work. Maybe this Father Ezekiel wasn't so different after all. "So that's why you want to trust him? Because he stayed through the trouble?"

Nodding, Morgelyn got that faraway look in her eyes again. "He and Grandmother were often in the same homes, trying to ease suffering, even though they knew they could become ill as well, and then when she left us, and I tried to do her work, he was always there. He never breathed a word that what I was doing was wrong, that he thought I might be...what's made him change his mind?"

Fergus's expression clouded over and he clenched his jaw; Gary rushed to forestall another flare-up like the one in the woods. "I know with Crumb, every time I need his help and need him to believe me, I have to convince him to listen to me all over again. Maybe this is just one of those times."

"Perhaps. There, that's the last of it." Morgelyn poured most of the stuff in the pitcher into a green glass bottle. About the right size for a good old American beer, Gary thought longingly. "It hasn't had enough time to stew and breathe together, but it should do Tolan more good than harm." 

Gary sniffed at the concoction. It smelled better than some of the stuff his mom had made him take when he was a kid. "Is he supposed to drink this all at once?"

Fergus threw up his hands and dropped to the bench on the other side of the table with a dramatic sigh. "This is useless, Morgelyn. He will kill the boy."

"No, he will not. Don't worry, Gary. I will make this simple for you."

Fergus snorted. "Simple is good." When Gary shot him a glare, he raised a brow and widened his eyes. "No insult intended, my friend, but you seem to know less about remedies than I, and I did not think that was possible."

"Just give me some Tylenol and Dimetapp, and I could take care of the kid for you." Gary shifted on the bench, stretching his cramped legs. "Where I come from, we don't make our own, that's all."

"Some what?" Fergus wanted to know, but Gary ignored him and stood, moving down to the end of the table so he could peer over Morgelyn's shoulder as she worked. 

"This one first." Morgelyn stopped the bottle with a cork. "One swallow each time he wakes. When the fever subsides, Anna should give him this one." She picked up the smaller vial she'd set next to the bottle, and, turning to the fire, ladled whatever was in the kettle into that. Her movements were confident and steady now; the vial went down onto the table, and then she retrieved an even tinier container, this one terra cotta, from a high shelf, then bundled all three, with a candle, into a linen cloth. "The smallest is one for a few days after, just a few drops in his soup or drink, to help him rest. She may tell Mark that the candle came from Father Ezekiel, and by rights it did, since he gave it to me. Mark never allows Anna any light, but she will need it to nurse the boy through the dark hours. Tell her to keep the cloth cool with fresh spring water, not well water, and rest it on his forehead. He should drink water from the spring, too, at least until the wells are blessed tomorrow."

Gary started to ask what that meant, then thought the better of it. The last thing he wanted to do was to get even more confused. Morgelyn made him repeat everything, and he tried to avoid Fergus's raised eyebrows and dubious stare as he recited the prescription.

When Morgelyn was satisfied, she tucked the bundle into a leather pouch and handed it to Gary. She gave a little sigh as she watched the men prepare to leave "Perhaps I should go along after all."

"No, you should not." Fergus, who had apparently decided to forego his full pack of goodies, swung a smaller version of the canvas sack over his shoulders. "We will take care of it, and everything will be back to normal in no time."

Yeah, like this is normal, Gary thought, settling the strap for his own pouch on his shoulder. Two guys off for a night on the town with their purses. But it stopped bothering him when he watched Morgelyn, deflated by Fergus's words, or by the end of the work she'd done, or maybe just everything, sit down at the table, her back to them, shoulders slumping. 

"Hey." He touched his fingertips to her shoulder, but it failed to get her attention. She stared right through the back wall of the cottage with her hands clasped, elbows on the table. "You said there was a reason I'm here, that it was me who showed up yesterday. Maybe this is it."

"Perhaps this is how it all begins." Heaving a sigh, she rubbed at her temples with the forefinger and thumb of one hand. "What if Tolan is not the only one to fall ill?"

Gary started to say something reassuring, but then the image of the emaciated, blind beggar popped into his head. He pulled his hand back. "He isn't. There was someone else."

"Not again," Fergus moaned. He slumped against the door jamb.

Turning so she could see them, Morgelyn crinkled her brow in a wary frown. "What are you talking about?"

Glancing toward Fergus for confirmation and waving his hand in the general direction of the village, Gary explained, "There was a man, all in rags, he was sleeping between some of the buildings and we gave him our food."

"Do you mean Robert? An older man, blind?"

"Yeah, that was him." Somehow, knowing the man had a name changed things, though Gary couldn't exactly say why. "He's sick, too. Do you have any extra of this stuff?"

"How do you know he is sick? How could anyone even tell?" asked Fergus. 

"That cough, all from the chest? It sounded like the little boy's."

"Oh, no." Morgelyn stood and was across the room in one quick movement, reaching for her cloak. "I have to see him. I have to know if he is well."

"No." Arms akimbo, Fergus blocked the doorway.

"I am the only one he trusts. He never even speaks to the rest of the villagers. He wanders around and does not speak to them and no one will even know that he is ill. You mustn't try to stop me this time." Morgelyn's words tumbled over each other in her rush; her fingers fluttered at her cloak pin. "He will not take shelter in any home, you know how he can be."

"I don't." Gary wanted an explanation, especially if it meant the plan was about to change.

"He had a wife and children. Three boys and a little girl. When the sickness struck, it took them all--all but Robert, and all within the same two days. Can you imagine losing everyone you love at one blow?" Her hand stilled over the pin, and her voice took on a tone of terrible inevitability that reminded Gary of those moments in the graveyard earlier. "He went mad. He bur--" Morgelyn squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed; Gary noticed Fergus staring down at the ground. 

"He burned his own home to the ground," Morgelyn finally said, "with their bodies inside. His eyesight had been weakening all along, even before the pestilence came, but somehow, it seemed that his grief accelerated his march toward blindness. He told me once, in one of the moments of clarity that sometimes come upon him, that the last thing he remembers seeing is the flames licking the roof of his house."

It was all more than Gary could take in at once, but the part he could manage was bad enough. "Didn't anyone try to stop him?"

"They were all distracted by their own grief and losses," Morgelyn said, and she pulled her cloak tight around her, as if to shut the memory out. "By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was too late."

"What about now? Why won't anyone help him?" 

"Now, even though there are empty houses in the village that he could use, he refuses to go inside, even on the coldest winter nights. He speaks mostly inanities, but sometimes he can make perfect sense. I do not understand it, but I do know that he will accept help, if not shelter, from me, when he will not go near anyone else. His wife and I were friends, and perhaps that is why he trusts me. He trusts me," she repeated, glaring at Fergus. "I need to see what has become of him."

"It is not safe for you to go." Fergus scowled ferociously, and he looked like an avenging leprechaun. Gary would have laughed if it wasn't for the fact that he agreed with the guy. There was a skeleton of solid steel in Morgelyn's determination, but the fact that she was right wouldn't protect her from a crazy man.

"I will stay out of Mark's home. I just want to see if I can help Robert."

"Stubborn cailleach," Fergus muttered, then, more clearly. "Not tonight."

Gary wasn't up for round two, not when he was finally on the verge of doing some good. "Look, how about we bring him back here?"

Fergus stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Morgelyn. "There are two of you. I did not think it possible." Fixing Gary with an exasperated look, he asked, "Are you deranged? She just told you he will not go with anyone, and if he is sick, to bring him here would be folly. What if he dies here? Then what will they think?"

"I have to do something." Morgelyn's voice had dropped, all the harshness of the quarrel gone as she faced her friend, one hand held out, asking him to understand. "I could not save his family."

"What if he truly is sick? What if we breathe his contagion?" Fergus shuddered. "And what kind of existence are you saving Robert for? Blind wanderings in the forest, begging for food, not even knowing his own name half the time? What is the point of prolonging that, Morgelyn?" 

She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes, and Gary knew that one had hit too close to home. But before he could say anything, Morgelyn fixed Fergus with a determined glare. "There is always hope. Always." She glanced at Gary. "We have to try."

"Yeah, we do, but we have to be smart about it." Gary put a hand on Morgelyn's shoulder. "No one's giving up here. Besides, what if he comes here trying to find you?"

"He will not."

"He might. Look, we gotta get going. It'll be dark before too long, right? We'll bring him back." He waited for her nod before motioning Fergus out. The other man, however, couldn't resist one last shot.

"Stay home and mend your dress," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. Gary pushed him out the door, preventing the spoon that came flying in their direction from hitting its mark.  


* * *

  
_We drew our arms around the bastard sons  
We never would drink to the chosen ones  
Well you know the way I went was not the way I planned   
But I thought the world needed love and a steady hand_  
~ Dar Williams

The woods were already half-drowned in dark when Gary and Fergus set off. They walked in silence for awhile, each absorbed in his own thoughts, while the birdsong stilled and night insects took up their chorus. Fergus hummed an aimless tune, but other than warnings against snapping branches and fallen logs, he didn't offer conversation. 

"You know," Gary finally said, hesitant as the early evening cricketsong, "you, uh--"

Fergus gave out a "hm" that was only half a question, but it was enough of an invitation to go on.

"You didn't have to be so hard on her."

"Morgelyn?" The look the bard flashed him was hard to read in the shadows, but his tone was nonchalant. "She doesn't mind."

"I think she minded a lot, earlier, when you started talking about France." An edge that sounded a lot like his mom's crept into his voice. "She was already scared, and probably confused, and even if she didn't show it, you could have cut her some slack."

"Cut her some slack? One gives slack to a rope, but--"

"That's what I meant. Loosen up a little when you're trying to talk some sense into her. Maybe then she won't throw things at you."

After a huff of a laugh, Fergus said, "I am not the one you should protect her from, Dragon Slayer."

Then stop acting like you are, Gary thought, but he knew that was too harsh; Fergus had gotten carried away with his warnings because he, too, was scared. There were plenty of dragons to deal with here, and no one, least of all Gary, seemed to have a clue where to start. He fell silent, Fergus resumed his half-hearted tune, and they kept going, the peddler's footsteps a light, shoofing counterpart to Gary's heavier tread. 

They crossed the bridge and stopped in front of a deserted hut at the edge of town. There was still enough light, now they were free from the deep forest, to see the buildings and the few people who lingered in the falling light. 

"I will make sure Mark is at the tavern," said Fergus.

Gary nodded. "I'll go look for the old--for Robert. I promised her," he added when Fergus shook his head.

"The boy comes first."

"But we can't go up there until you check the tavern."

"Stay. Here." For a moment Fergus looked as though he was about to say more, but then he clamped his jaw shut and stalked off. Gary waited in the lengthening shadows, watching the figures in the distance, people he didn't know on errands he couldn't discern, coming and going from house to house, among the few shops, the church, and the well. He wondered who among them he could trust--more importantly, who his new friends should trust--and who else might be a shock, someone from his own past.

No, not his past, his _life_. 

"Pssst!" 

Gary jumped. Fergus's exaggerated whisper came from behind the house; he must have taken another route back from the tavern. "All is well; Mark is in there consuming tankards of John's best ale with his mates. He will not be staggering home for hours, not if the past is any indication." He rubbed his hands together, then clapped them, as if he'd come to a sudden decision. "Very well. You go to Anna and give her the cures. I will make sure the men stay put."

Some of Gary's resolve faded at the thought of going back to that dark hut, that forlorn woman, alone. "You're not coming with me?"

"I thought you said you could do this." Fergus fixed him with a frown that was equal parts perplexity and exasperation. "You said you do it every day. Look, man, someone has to watch your back." He waved toward the other side of the village. "If Styles comes back and finds you in his home, alone with his wife, there is no guessing what he might do." He started back toward the center of town, and Gary fell into step next to him. "Very well, then," he continued, as the matter was apparently settled, "We need a signal."

"A what?" 

"A signal, so that I may warn you if necessary, and for you to tell me when you are done. Can you hoot like an owl?" Rounding his lips into a perfect "O", Fergus let out a couple of hoots that were too high-pitched to be believable. "Stand outside the windows and hoot."

"You gotta be kidding me." It seemed like a silly idea, but Gary decided it was best to go along and get this over with. "Yeah, yeah, okay. An owl." 

"Here is where we part company." Fergus nodded Gary off in the right direction. "I wish you luck."

"Same to you," Gary muttered at the other man's back. Pushing what had happened there that afternoon from his thoughts, he crossed the village commons. He walked with his arms pulled in tight, keeping a wary eye out for any unwanted attention. This was the first time he'd been alone since the night before, but while the ocean had expanded his thoughts, Gwenyllan's dusky shadows contracted them, leaving him tense and jumpy. Smoke came from more chimneys now, as the air took on the cool softness of a spring night. Grateful that he didn't come within shouting distance of anyone at all, he ducked behind the bakery and climbed the hill to the Styles home. 

Shooting cautious glances from side to side, he approached the hovel, still wondering whether a large bear of a man was going to leap from the shadows. When he was close enough to see past the branches of the tree before the house, he stopped short. A large bundle of spiky yellow flowers, tied crudely with twine, hung from a wooden peg next to the door frame. They were the ones Morgelyn had identified as St. John's flower, the ones that Fergus had claimed were some kind of guard against witchcraft.

Though he told himself that he shouldn't jump to conclusions in this strange place, Gary was sure that he understood what it meant. Anger got the better of him, and he strode right up to the house. He reached for the flowers, intending to toss them away, to stamp out this symbol of paranoia against someone who didn't deserve it, when a soft gasp from behind made him jump.

"No! Please, he will be angry if you take them away."

Gary whirled, his hand dropping back down. "Anna?" 

Clutching the water jug he'd dropped at the well that afternoon, she stood before him, fearful eyes round as quarters. In the last, slanting light, Gary could just make out a bruise on her left cheek, about the size of a man's fist.

It took a moment before he could speak; he had to force his clenched jaw to relax, then open. "I won't take it," he promised, to ease her fear. He lifted a two-fingered point at the morbid bouquet. "But you don't need this."

She looked at the flowers, then at him. "You were with Morgelyn."

"That's right. I'm Gary. Here, let me get that for you." Her arms had sagged with the weight of the jar, and she looked so tired and scared that all his irritation vanished. Hefting the jar, he stepped aside to let her into her house, but, face-to-face with him, she paused. 

"How fares Morgelyn?" 

"She's fine," Gary assured her. "She's at home."

Darting a look down the lane, Anna stuttered, "She is my friend, no matter what he says. I told Mark he should not have done that. We had words." Her fingers, gnarled with work, nails short and ragged, reached up to touch the bruise on her cheek. 

"He's over at the tavern. He won't be back for a while." Gary was about to say more, but a bout of weak coughing from inside the house brought his attention back to his errand. "Morgelyn sent you some things for your boy." 

Anna stared at him for another moment, then pushed the curtain aside, held it open for Gary. "Set the jar on the table." She nodded at the crude slab of wood, supported by two tree stumps, then went to kneel beside the bundled boy on the floor. It was darker than the forest here in the cottage. The pitifully tiny fire in the corner was too low to be much help. Fumbling with the strings of the pouch, he pulled out the bundle and found the candle. He lit it from what was left of the fire and joined Anna. 

"These should help." Injecting as much confidence as he could into his voice, he held out the cloth and bundles. Anna stared at his offering, but didn't reach for it. Gary knelt, closer to her eye level. "You trust her, don't you? You want Tolan to live?" They both started as another bout of coughing erupted from the little boy on the floor. His shock of red hair glowed in the firelight; it was the same color Anna's must have been before it faded, before she faded into the shadow of her overbearing husband. A pair of glassy eyes met Gary's for a moment, pooling dark and confusion. Maybe, in his fevered state, the boy thought this was a dream. Gary knew that sensation well enough. 

Anna reached out and stroked Tolan's cheek, soothing and hushing until he closed his eyes again. She took the candle from Gary, and the taper trembled in her hands, sending drunken shadows careening around the hut. "Father Ezekiel was here earlier," she whispered.

Gary's spine stiffened. He still didn't know what to make of the man. "What did he say?"

"That we should pray." Anna ran the fingers of her free hand through her son's hair. "I have done nothing but pray. When I found Morgelyn this afternoon, I thought she was the answer to my prayers, until Mark--" She bit her lip, and the candle trembled so badly that Gary was afraid she'd drop it and burn down the hut. Leaving the medicines on the ground, he fetched an empty, overturned stein from the table. Anna didn't resist, didn't even seem to notice, when he took the candle from her and set it in the stein. It fell against one side in a slant that would send the wax pooling to the floor, but in this place, Gary was sure no one would notice. Better the wax than the flame. 

He took a deep breath. "You're right. Morgelyn is your friend, and she sent you help." He held out the largest bottle. "They're small enough that you can hide them. Your husband doesn't have to know."

"After what Mark did, you want to help?" Anna's ragged whisper caught in her throat and stabbed at Gary's conscience. If he'd gone along with Fergus's side of the debate, what would have happened to her, to her son?

"No one blames you," he said gently. "And no one blames your son, either. He deserves to live." She was blinking back tears now, but she reached for the bottle, fingers trembling. Swallowing a sigh of relief, Gary conveyed Morgelyn's instructions, wondering if the simplicity hadn't been for Anna's sake rather than his own. "If you need anything else," he finished, "you know where to find us."

Anna nodded, but she was already lifting Tolan's head to give him the first of the doses. Pushing himself to his feet, Gary folded the leather pouch and stuffed it into his belt, since he had no pockets. He was two steps across the room, halfway to the door, when Anna's soft voice stopped him again. 

"Sir?" She was still on her knees, but there was something straighter about her posture, something less defeated in her shadow, candle-dancing against the far wall. "Tell her I know Mark is wrong. And I thank you. Both of you." Gary flashed her a tight smile that he hoped was reassuring and went out.

The sun had set; a few last, lingering rays streaked the indigo sky. Wondering how he was going to manage a convincing owl hoot, and how he was going to keep himself from giving Mark Styles a taste of his own brutality if he saw the man again, Gary made his way down to the commons. He wasn't really looking where he was going, caught between twilight and his own dark thoughts, when raucous laughter erupted from the tavern, followed by loud voices, cawing like a flock of crows. He couldn't make out words until he was just outside the open window; then he recognized Mark Styles's bass, booming over the others'. 

"Gave that little witch a taste of her own medicine, I did! Put her in her place right quick." The venom in his voice and the cackles of agreement that followed squeezed their way around Gary's stomach. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was on the door latch.

"Revenge is never wise, my son." Whirling, Gary found himself nose-to-nose with a familiar face--if a Chicago cop in a priest's outfit could be called familiar. The eyes, though, that piercing, "don't mess with me" glare--Gary knew that one through and through. Father Ezekiel motioned him away from the door, and Gary let himself be led away from the entrance. They stopped near the well, where the tavern boasts were once again indistinct, but the mocking tone still rang in his ears, and anger had settled in his chest.

"Vengeance confirms their hatred and breeds more," Ezekiel said, steady and firm as the well stones. Nodding at Gary's clenched fist, the priest added, "If you were to succeed in humiliating him, who do you think would bear the brunt of his rage afterward?"

Gary forced his stiff fingers open; he hadn't been completely clear about his own intentions, but he knew Ezekiel was right. "I wasn't going to do anything."

His face cast in shades of twilight blue and grey, the priest lifted one bushy eyebrow. "Then you are wiser than you appear."

"I'm just waiting for a friend." Why he felt compelled to explain himself to this man, Gary wasn't sure. He cast a nervous glance around him, his gaze coming to rest on the path to the Styles' home. The commons was darkening quickly, and doors and windows were being pulled shut against the night. Even so, he could see Ezekiel's jaw stiffen and grow more square, if that were possible. 

"Tell me she is not in that house again." 

Gary knew immediately what he meant. "Morgelyn stayed home." He jumped when someone clapped him on the back. When his heart started up again, he saw Fergus had joined them. 

"There you are." His voice held barely-hidden relief. "We should be getting home. Not a good idea to walk through the woods at night, you know."

Gary frowned down at him. "But what about Rob--"

"Father Ezekiel, good evening to you." Taking hold of Gary's sleeve, Fergus tried to pull him away, but Gary wouldn't budge. He'd promised to bring the old man to Morgelyn's. 

"MacEwan." Ezekiel jerked a nod at Fergus. Gary wasn't sure if that was a greeting or a dismissal, but then the priest pinned him with a loaded gaze. "Listen to your friend there, stranger. Get home before danger awakes." With that, he turned and lumbered toward the church. Gary stared after him, still trying to figure out whose side he was on. 

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Fergus punched Gary lightly on the upper arm. "We must go."

Gary shook his head. "We can't leave yet. What about Robert?" 

"He is not in the passageway; I already checked. We can tell Morgelyn we tried." 

"Tried? We've barely even begun." Gary narrowed his eyes at Fergus, who was acting more jittery than Chuck on a venti double espresso. "What's gotten into you?"

"Too much talk." Fergus shook his head, shooting an angry glance toward the tavern. "That man is in there bragging about what he's done, and his companions are egging him on."

"Yeah, I know." Gary's fingers flexed of their own accord. "I heard him, too."

"It was all I could do to sit there and not--not--"

Recalling what Father Ezekiel had said to him, Gary said, "It's just as well you didn't. C'mon, let's find this guy."

"I told you, I tried." Fergus went still. "Robert is just one person, one beggar. A blind man who doesn't even have his mind left to him. What in the world is the point?"

"There's always a point." Though part of him understood Fergus's reluctance, Gary was also angry at all these people who didn't seem to care. Weren't communities supposed to come together after crises? This place was falling apart. "The point is, there is something we can do, and we're gonna do it. Now, where would he be?"

Fergus shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. The man disappears for days and weeks at time, and no one knows where he goes. We cannot go tromping around the village after dark."

"What about up there?" Gary pointed at the northeastern edge of the village, beyond the farms. There were buildings up that way, scattered, dark shapes on the moor. 

"No one lives there anymore." Fergus started back toward the forest path, but Gary was not about to go. He'd given in on every other issue this far, deferring to those who knew this place better than he did. But not this time. "What about his house?"

Turning so quickly he sent pebbles skittering, Fergus glared at Gary. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe Robert went back home."

"He burned his home, as Morgelyn told you. With his family inside. Why would he go back?"

"He's sick. He probably knows he could die." Fishtailing his hand through the air, as if batting possibilities back and forth, Gary tried to find words for his half-formed thoughts. "Maybe he wants to join them."

Fergus's eyes grew wide. "Oh."

"So where is it?" 

"Gary--"

"Where is it?"

His shoulders sagging in defeat, Fergus tilted his head toward the same distant buildings that Gary had pointed out. "This way, I believe." 

He led them out of the heart of the village along a narrow path, father up onto the moor than Gary had been before. In the faint light of the first stars, they came in sight of the wild, grassy plain. The few houses out here looked utterly deserted. It was as if, after all the trouble, everyone left had shrunk in closer together, circling the wagons in fear of the next catastrophe. 

Except for the outsiders. People like Robert; people like Morgelyn. Gary wondered if she had any idea how truly isolated she was among these villagers. Growing moreso by the day, it seemed. He shook the doubts away, determined to do what he had to. Maybe that's what he was here to do: give her room enough and time enough to help, so the others would see she wasn't a threat. 

A nearly-full moon was rising, orange and glowing on the horizon before them. Farther still than the abandoned cottages, he could make out the faint lines of a much bigger structure, crumbling towers and jagged walls. "What's that?" he asked Fergus. 

"The ruins of the old manor house. It used to belong to a knight, I think, many years ago, before Gwenyllan became a free village. 'Tis rumored that the knight's descendants remained there for some time after, living off his spoils, perhaps, or--" He broke off, and they both came to a halt. "Zounds, what is happening up there?"

Gary had seen the same thing. There were lights moving through the house, flickering like gigantic fireflies from narrow windows. He figured someone was up there, but doing what? He also figured, gauging the ever-strengthening moonlight, that they wouldn't need the torches or whatever they were using much longer. "Why would anyone want to check out a bunch of ruins at night?"

Fergus threw up his hands. "Whoever it is, I am sure they intend no good. Why does it matter to you?"

Sighing, Gary filed the strange lights under the ever growing "things to worry about later" section of his brain. "Okay, fine, where was Robert's house?"

"Around here, somewhere." Fergus surveyed the houses along the overgrown lane. "I never really knew him before, though his wife was quite well known as a beauty." Gary shot him a suspicious look, but Fergus didn't appear to be leering, just honestly appreciative. 

The cottages around them were larger than Gary had expected, but they were all intact. No burned-out hulks that he could see. There was no sign of life, no movement other than their own, and after what must have been twenty minutes of fruitless searching through abandoned yards and creepy dark corners, he was ready to concede defeat. He'd opened his mouth to say as much to Fergus, when a strangled, guttural cry sounded up ahead, behind the next house, which was separated from the others by an overgrown field. 

"Leave me be!"

Gary was already sprinting toward the sound when Fergus called, "Wait!" Too late, of course. There was a response to the man's call, soft, too quiet to be understood, but Gary was dead sure it was a female voice. Wasn't hard to guess whose.

He rounded the corner of the larger house and stopped in his tracks. The yellow-tinged moonlight cast everything in weird, elongated shadows. There had been a house here once, but it was indeed gone. Weeds had overtaken the foundation, and all that was left was a crumbling rectangle of stone. The ground under Gary's feet became hard, and he thought he could smell charred wood, but perhaps it was just his imagination. Just ahead, he could make out two figures, one skittering backward on his knees and the other bending forward, extending a hand from a sweep of cloak.

"Robert, please, I can help you."

"Get away from me, woman! Leave me in peace." The man swung his head back and forth like a wild animal, and now that he was out from under the mound of rags, Gary could see that Robert had long, white hair, scraggly and tangled like a huge bird's nest. 

"I will not leave you to die. Who's there?" Alerted by Gary's footsteps, then Fergus's, Morgelyn shot up, spun around. Robert scrambled to his feet and lurched unsteadily away from her, toward the open moor. How a blind man planned to get around this wasteland without guidance was beyond Gary. He caught up with Robert in just a few loping strides. Morgelyn was at his heels, cautioning, "Do not hurt him."

Gary grabbed the old man's upper arms from behind. To his surprise, Robert didn't struggle; he went rigid, like a stone statue, stiff with fear. Fergus hurried over from the remains of the house, carrying a basket. He held it out to Morgelyn, but she didn't seem to notice him at all. She came and stood before Gary and his strange captive.

"Robert?" she asked gently, as if she were talking to one of the village children. She placed one hand on his still arm. "Robert, this is Morgelyn. I am your friend. Do you remember?"

Battling his gag reflex at the stench of the man--sure, most of these people were a bit overripe, but this guy took the cake--Gary kept his hands wrapped firmly around Robert's arms. Just as his feet were sinking in the springy grass, his fingers sank into layers of clothing as he tried to fasten his grip without hurting the man. It was as if Robert had simply donned new layers of clothing over the old ones when they'd worn too thin. Under all that decaying cloth, though, Gary could feel sharp shoulder blades and bones as brittle as the air they breathed. Not a muscle twitched under his fingers, but Gary wasn't about to let go. He was afraid Robert would just topple over, like a felled tree. Gary wasn't even sure he was breathing. Fergus, who was now behind Morgelyn, watched the tableau with a helpless expression. 

"Robert?" Morgelyn stepped closer, reaching up to touch the old man's cheek. When she did, the contact was electric; he jumped as if he'd been shocked. His breath returned in rough gasps that became hacking coughs. Soon he went limp, and Gary's hands were all that supported him. 

Easing the old man down as gently as he could, Gary knelt in the deep grass. Robert coughed and coughed until there couldn't have been any air left in his lungs. When he finally stopped, he reached out a hand; Morgelyn caught it in both of her own.

"They are sick," he groaned, tossing his head from side to side so violently that Gary was afraid he might snap his neck. "They are dying, Tristan, Michael, little Breaca. And Cordelia, my beautiful Cordelia--so much pain--"

"No," Morgelyn soothed, "All is well now, Robert. They are no longer sick." Gary heard the sorrow in her voice, but he couldn't catch her eye to show her he understood; all her attention was focused on Robert. "I promise you, there is no more pain."

Robert relaxed, his head falling back against Gary's chest. "No more pain," he echoed. 

Motioning Fergus to her side, Morgelyn reached into the basket and took out one of her tiny bottles. "Take this, drink it." She lifted the bottle to his lips, and Robert obeyed like a small child. Gary finally relaxed his hold, and the old man rubbed his upper arms as he sat upright. 

"I want you to take this, Robert." Morgelyn took one of his gnarled hands and wrapped it around the basket handle. "There is more of the decoction for your cough in here, and bread. Do you understand? This is for you." She searched his sightless eyes, his flaccid face, for some sign that he understood. And slowly, to Gary's astonishment, the man nodded. 

"This is for me," he parroted, clutching the basket to his chest.

"Do you want to come home with me, Robert? Do you want to sleep by a fire tonight?"

"Got a fire." He stood, and tottered toward the stone rubble, pointing. "My fire is here. Built us a fire. They are not sick, not sick, no more pain."

Gary sat back on his heels, contemplating the ruin. He tried to imagine the fire, flames shooting into a night like this, a funeral pyre, the light fading from Robert's eyes as home, family, everything he knew, crackled into ashes. The guy had a right to go nuts.

Still trying to help, Morgelyn had followed Robert. She put a hand on his shoulder. "If you need anything, send for me. Send one of the children, or tell Father Ezekiel. Do you understand, Robert? I will help you." 

Another fit of coughing overtook the old man, bending him over double. Scrambling to his feet, Gary covered the distance between them in a few long steps. He reached for the man, but Robert straightened up, the basket still wrapped in his arms. "Must go," he mumbled. "Must go." He tottered toward the stand of trees behind the ruins of his house. Gary looked to Morgelyn for a cue. 

She shook her head. "Let him go."

"But--"

Gary's protest was cut short when Robert stopped, then took another lurching step, this time back in Morgelyn's direction. He stretched one skeletal hand toward her, still cradling the basket with the other. Something about his face had changed. In the moonlight, clearer now and piercing, Robert looked more alive, more connected to reality. His voice rose, taking on a note of urgency. "Help you."

Morgelyn stared at Robert, her forehead furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Help you." The command in the old man's voice chilled Gary to the marrow. "They will come." 

"Who will come?"

The bony hand arced toward the ruined manor, and, as if he knew what Gary and Fergus had seen earlier, Robert intoned, "Fire."

No one moved; Gary couldn't have if he'd tried. Robert's words were like a spell, rooting them all where they stood.

"Enora knew. She told you. Beware of fire. The dragons will burn us all."

"Dragons?" Strangled, Morgelyn's voice seemed to come from someplace far away. "Robert, I never knew Enora. What did she say?"

"Dunna lie to me, Amalia. Enora told you, she told you both. Slay the dragon. No more fire, not for you. Fire is for the dead. It takes them all away." He turned and stumbled toward the trees, and this time no one made a move to follow him. 

"What did he mean?" Gary finally asked, but when Morgelyn looked at him, she had no answer. If Fergus's awful stories about France had rattled them both, Robert's pronouncement had shaken them to the core. 

"Grandmother," Morgelyn said, her voice unsteady. "Amalia was my grandmother." She covered her mouth with one hand, staring over her fingers with huge eyes.

"Hey," Gary started, trying to offer some sort of solid ground, "it's okay--" He didn't get the chance to finish. A smaller figure, almost forgotten in the confrontation, pushed past him.

"What were you _thinking_ , coming out here? Did we not tell you to stay home?" Fergus hissed at Morgelyn. Recovering the semblance of composure with a blink, she gave him a look that would have frozen lava, then stalked back to the path, headed for town. "Morgelyn, stop." She didn't, and Fergus hurried to get in her way, Gary at his heels. "Listen to me."

"Not another word, Fergus. Not one." Her eyes were focused somewhere distant, and she kept walking.

"You are not--" Fergus reached for her arm, but she sidestepped his touch. "Stay away the village tonight; we can take the path across the moor and through the woods." Gary could hear the crack in his voice. "Morgelyn, _please_." 

She froze, didn't look back at them. All Gary could see was the back of her bowed head, and she whispered his name. "Gary?" 

Somehow he understood what she was asking, what her priority would be. "Anna has the medicine," he told her. "I saw her give the first of it to the boy." He wished there was more he could say, wished there was some reassurance he could give her. The best he could do at this point was not mention the flowers at the door of the Styles home, or what he'd heard outside the tavern. She'd had enough of that for one day. They all had. More than enough.

Squaring her shoulders, Morgelyn turned in a swirl of cape and skirt, and walked off at a right angle to the path. She whispered, "Thank you," when she passed Gary, but she didn't look at him, and those were the only words any of them uttered in all the long walk home.  


* * *

  
_There is no divine intervention here,  
Just a girl with bulletproof belief._  
~ Julia Darling

"So it is..."

Marissa awoke to near-silence in the thick night air. She was wrapped in cocooning layers of soft forgetfulness, and her first conscious realization was muscular, the deep, internal bliss of having slept with a soundness that could only be appreciated after complete exhaustion. The sharper clarity of memory came gradually, not from inside, but from out, from the awareness that there was something different in the quiet rhythms of her home. Spike was breathing evenly at the foot of her bed, as always, but there was another presence in the house. The faint mumble of television voices issued from the heating vent across the room; it was okay, there was someone here she trusted. Chuck. Chuck was here, too. 

Why...oh.

Gary. The lake.

She didn't fight the events of the past two day. She let them come, the ache of loss and the spark of hope. 

And, from the night that was passing, the echo of a dream.

"So it is, and so it will be..."

Her mind reached for the words, but their meaning flitted away, tantalizing and elusive. A rhythm remained, faraway familiar, entrenched in the distant past. Coming more fully awake, she found herself curled around a pillow, cool air brushing her face and shoulders. She rolled onto her back and stretched; reached for the alarm clock. "Three twenty-five AM," the robotic voice intoned.

She'd been asleep for nearly twelve hours. Had it really been only brandy in the glass Crumb had given her? What if she'd missed a phone call, a knock on the door? No, she reminded herself, Chuck was here, and he would have woken her if they'd found...but no, she told herself firmly, no. They _wouldn't_ have found Gary, not the way everyone thought they would, anyway. 

The doubt and faith warring inside her had continued their battle while she slept, but they'd left no trace elements, no signs to help her decide which way to go. She kept her mind relaxed, her breathing even, and tried not to clutch too tightly to the remnants of her dreams, knowing they would slip through her fingers if she did. It was frustrating, because she suspected there was a clue, because there had to be a clue somewhere, to tell her what had happened to Gary. 

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she lay still and tried to match her breathing to the rhythm of the few words she could remember from the dream. Her hands slid together, her fingers locked. Her body remembered what her mind and even heart had forgotten, what her mother and grandmother had ingrained in her since she was old enough to understand: in times of trouble, say your prayers. But every prayer she could remember seemed inadequate. None asked for guidance in telling the difference between signs and wonders and the delusions of a grief-stricken heart. Finally, she whispered, "Father, I don't know what's going on here. I'm not in control. You are. If you can show me what to do, or help me figure it out, please. The sooner, the better. Take care of Gary, wherever he is, and if you want to send any miracles our way, they would be most appreciated."

She forced a deep sigh, hoping to clear her head. It would be best to go back to sleep, at least until a more reasonable hour. The distant television hum was strangely comforting, and Marissa curled onto her side again, relaxing back into the deep of the night, the arms of her dream.

"So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind..."

The words splashed ocean rhythms in her head.

"I am not resigned..."

Balanced on the precipice between sleep and wakefulness, she held her breath. 

"I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground..."

It wasn't a dream.

It was a poem, a real one, learned long ago and filed away, as if her subconscious mind had known it would be needed. But time had splintered the memory, leaving shards and snatches in place of the whole. She still had her high school anthology, she told herself; she could find it in the morning. It could wait.

Marissa couldn't. 

Sleep had finished its business with her, and teasing phrases had taken its place. The fragments whirred between her ears, each holding out its own combination of hope and despair, promise and denial. Finally she gave in and sat up. Spike's tags jingled the moment her feet hit the floor. 

"It's okay, boy." 

Her slippers were tucked precisely under the bed; her robe hung neatly on the door hook. Everything in the room was controlled and ordered, except for Marissa herself. Something warm would calm her down. Hot chocolate or herbal tea. Maybe even something to eat. She couldn't keep going on zero fuel. 

_"When was the last time you had something besides coffee?"_

Her own words echoed back to her. She'd chided Gary about the same thing a few months ago, hadn't she? Half a year ago; it felt like half a lifetime, when Chuck had been in the hospital and they all thought they would lose him, and maybe Gary, too. She shuddered at the memory of how lost she'd felt at the prospect of losing both friends. But they'd pulled out of that one, faith renewed, just as Father Dow had predicted. They would this time, too. 

The bookcase in the upstairs hall held her Braille texts; she found the poetry anthology with little difficulty. It was thick, its pages undersized. Tucking it under her arm, she made her way downstairs. Spike's soft, padding footsteps echoed her own. In the living room, she could hear Chuck's steady breathing from the couch and the blather, very low, of one of the shopping networks. 

"This jacket is incredible, Mimi! It feels like real mohair. Can you believe we're offering it for only eighty-five dollars?" 

Marissa reached for the remote, but it wasn't in its accustomed spot on the end table, and she had to go to the unit itself to shut it off. Holding very still, she waited for a reaction from Chuck, but there was only a brief hesitation in the rhythm of his breathing before it continued again, as deep as before. She debated waking him and sending him up to the guest room, but decided he was just as well off here. He'd probably used the television to drown out his own dark thoughts.

She stopped at the desk and picked up the glass globe, then went into the kitchen. After setting the book and globe on the table, she filled the teakettle and set it to boil. The click of Spike's nails on the linoleum reminded her that he hadn't had any dinner, and she filled his bowl and got him fresh water. "Poor guy," Marissa murmured, scratching him behind the ears. He rewarded her efforts with a few thumps of his tail against her leg before snarfing the dog food down as fast as he could. Marissa sank into a chair, opened her book to the index of first lines, and found what she needed almost immediately: Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Dust motes sprayed into her nose as she shuffled the thick pages. It had been a long time since she'd indulged in the careening emotion of poetry. Psych classes and running McGinty's didn't call for effusive language, but she needed it now.

The words were shapes under her fingers, hard-edged and defiant. The embossed dots formed defiant swords of cutting truth. 

_I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.  
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind...._

She fingered the page over and over, letting the words tickle up her arms and down her spine. This was it. Support, something to lean against when every other prop was gone. It was a kind of proof, not one that Chuck or Crumb would accept, but proof that she was not being unreasonable; that at least one other person, at least one other time, had felt the same way, and fought back. The teakettle's whistle was only a faint whisper against the power of the shapes under her fingers. She pressed her whole palm against the page, over all the words at once, as if she could absorb their strength through her skin. 

_Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave  
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;   
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.   
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned._

"Marissa?"

She started; the book slipped from her hands, landed with a thump. 

"God, Chuck," she breathed. 

"Sorry. I'm sorry, the teakettle woke me up."

"The--oh." The piercing whistle finally registered; Marissa hurried to the range and pulled the kettle off the burner. 

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Chuck's voice was gruff and muffled.

"I didn't mean to wake you. I didn't even hear it go off. I was reading." Reaching for the cupboard door, she asked, "Want some cocoa?"

"Uh, no, no, I just...well, yeah, okay." She wasn't sure why he'd changed his mind, or if he even really knew what he was saying. "What were you reading?" There was a soft slap of pages as Chuck picked the book up from the floor and leafed through it, but of course he'd have no clue what it was. 

Marissa ignored the question. Safer that way. "I've been asleep since this afternoon. I didn't even hear you come in from your shopping trip." She pulled out mugs and hot chocolate mix. A chair scraped across the floor and Chuck dropped into it with an audible thump and a heavy sigh. "Did you find what you needed?"

"It was weird. I mean, I took Crumb to McGinty's so he could get his car. Well, actually, he took me. Said I shouldn't be driving, and he wouldn't let me have my keys until he dragged me into the bar and poured that sludge he calls coffee down my throat. I gotta admit, though, it worked. Kept me going until I got the shopping done. But the thing was..." He cleared his throat. "The thing was, while I was sitting in the bar, the Hobsons came in."

Marissa's hand froze, just for a moment, in the process of spooning cocoa mix into the mugs. "Oh, Chuck."

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but God, Bernie's more of a mess than Lois is."

"That's not much of a surprise."

"He was ranting and raving right in front of Crumb about why the 'stupid cops' couldn't find Gary, or figure out what had happened, and the thing was, Crumb let him." Chuck's voice held a note of bemused disbelief. "Like he understood, if you can believe that."

Guided by the sound of his voice, she set his mug on the table. "I do believe it. Crumb's good at taking care of people. It's all he's done for the past two days."

"Who would have thought it? You should have seen Lois, though. She didn't even say an entire sentence worth of words in fifteen minutes. I always knew she was the strong type, but not silent. Not like this." There was another sigh in his voice. "Man, I don't want to be around when she does finally break down."

"Very noble of you," Marissa said dryly, turning back to make her own cocoa. 

Chuck snorted. "I never claimed to be a knight in shining armor. That's Gary, remember?"

She remembered; how could she forget? She herself had called Gary--

"Watch out!" Hot water spilled onto her hand, and then Chuck was right next to her, tipping the teakettle back upright and pushing the overflowing mug away. "You're gonna burn yourself." 

She shook the water off her hand, then reached for a towel. "It's okay."

"What'd I say?" Chuck sounded genuinely confused. Had he really forgotten the letter's contents? "You looked like you just saw--or heard--a ghost." 

"No, it's just--" Marissa gestured toward the table, where she knew he could see the crystal ball. "It's that, and that letter, and yesterday--no, the day before--on the pier, I was teasing Gary about being a knight. He said he didn't want to wear armor."

"But he was. Don Quixote in the flesh, that was our Gar. Here, let me finish this up." Chuck elbowed her away from the counter, and, still running the towel over her hand though there was no moisture left to dry, Marissa found her own chair at the table. 

She could have challenged Chuck's use of the past tense, but this new detente between them was far less exhausting than constant arguing, so she ignored it. "What did you say to Gary's parents?" she asked after a moment.

"Nothing much. I got out of there as fast as I could. I think they're still pretty much in shock." Another mug clinked on the table, and Chuck sat down across from her. Spike came to lay across her feet. "They asked about you, though. Lois wants to talk to you. You know how she is, she likes to get all the details and stuff." He hesitated, and then finished uneasily, "I didn't know what to tell her about all this. What you're up to, I mean. I'm not sure if they'd understand."

What she was up to. As if she were planning a surprise party. She tried to hide her wince, ducking her head to take a sip of cocoa before she answered him. "I won't say anything to them right now. I don't think it would be fair, and after today I see more clearly how upsetting this is for everyone else."

"Oh, great, now you figure it out." Chuck's grumble was honest, but the accusation was only half-hearted. Still, Marissa felt as though she should apologize. After a night's sleep she was better able to see the other side of the story.

"I never meant to upset you, Chuck. I'm sor--"

"No." He cut her off with a tap of his spoon against the table. "Don't say it. You hate that word, remember?"

"Yes, but I wasn't really putting myself in your shoes, was I?" She set her mug down, exchanging its warmth for the cool smoothness of the globe, sighing as she ran her thumbs over the glass. "What am I doing, Chuck?"

There was a heartbeat of silence before he replied, his voice gentle. "According to Crumb, you're doing what you have to."

Pity? Did he feel sorry for her? That was the kind of sorry she hated. Her jaw tightened; her chin lifted. "This is not some bizarre form of grief therapy."

"I know that, Marissa, relax, okay?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper; she let down her walls just for an instant, revealing her loneliness in the tone of her voice. "If you know, then why can't you believe?"

There was a long silence, and Marissa reminded herself that she had to get out of her own head and understand Chuck's point of view. He was afraid he'd be hurt again if this wasn't real. He was too afraid to believe. 

"You know, Chuck..." She reached for words to offer him, to show him what he was capable of. "You were there with Gary from the beginning, with the paper. The way he tells it, you helped him figure out what it did. And even though your motives were less than pure, you accepted it. You believed that something completely impossible was possible."

His chair squeaked as he shifted around. "You were the first one who understood what it was really _for_ , and why it went to Gar."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. Gary did." Chuck's spoon rattled in the empty mug. "Out in California, it gets harder to believe it, the longer I'm away. Even when I was pitching the whole thing as a television show--or maybe because I was--it didn't seem real. I kept thinking there had to have been some mistake, or that Gary had been pulling one over on me. I know how that sounds, okay?" he added in response to Marissa's barely-audible gasp. "I'm just telling you, you get away from this thing, and it's easy to see why most of the people Gary runs into think he's a kook."

"You've been through so much because of the paper. Don't tell me you've forgotten what's happened over the past two years."  
  
"I didn't forget anything, I just had a hard time connecting with it. Because it wasn't right there in front of my face, it stopped being real to me. You have to understand, LA is a completely different world. It's like everything out there is plastic, including the people. I fit right in."

"You're not like that at all."

"No, that's the scary part. I am. Without you and Gary around, plumbing my depths or whatever they call it, I'm one of them. It's okay. It gets TV shows made. I just wish--" His voice dropped; if he was a school boy, he'd be shuffling his feet. "Right now, I wish I had your faith." 

She didn't know how to respond to that. Faith wasn't like the crystal ball under her fingers. She couldn't just hand it over to him. He had to find it on his own. 

Finally Chuck said, "I think I can probably catch a few more hours of sleep tonight. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Sure." Marissa forced the ghost of a smile. "I'll try to keep the kettle quiet."

He pushed out his chair and stood. "Thanks for the cocoa. The bed, everything. I really hadn't thought anything through when I got on that plane." 

"What are friends for?" This time her smile, though sad, was real. "Get some rest, Chuck."

He grunted a good night and walked out. Half-listening to his footsteps, the water running in the bathroom, and the soft-click of the guest room door, Marissa hefted the globe in her hands, her fingers moving again to trace the intricate pattern formed by the metal base. Over, and under, and...hmm.

Her brow creased as her fingers, sensitive to the slightest variations in the metal, retraced their path under the base. The bottom of the globe was open, and the metal strands weren't just carved on a flat surface, they were actually woven together, welded, she assumed, though she could find no trace of excess metal at the joints. What had caught her attention was a difference in the texture of the metal strands inside the base; not everywhere, just in certain places. Slightly rougher surfaces, as though...it felt as though something was carved into the metal. 

Slow down, she told herself when her pulse quickened; be careful. Crumb, the police sergeant, the divers, Gary--none of them had noticed anything special about the underside of the base. But they had been looking for switches and triggers, and they hadn't spent much time at it. 

She took a deep breath and tried again, and her conclusion didn't change. There was something there. It felt like the letters she remembered trying to learn in elementary school. Some of them were very definite, while others were thin as gossamer, as though centuries of fingers had worn them out. In some places there didn't seem to be any carving at all. If this thing was as old as she thought it was, it could be that the words, if they really were words, had been completely worn away in those spots. 

She thought about waking Chuck, but decided against it. He needed his rest, and this could, she thought with a twinge of guilt, be a nothing more than a snipe hunt. 

Who could she ask to help her? Well, of course, no one right now, but maybe in a couple of hours, if she could find someone who knew about antiquities. An archaeologist, maybe. Surely someone at the university would be able to point her toward an objective pair of eyes that could help decode the message hidden under the mysterious gift.

Decision made, she finished the last of her hot chocolate, and then, resting her chin in her hand, read the poem one more time. Maybe she'd remembered it out of anger--at the paper, at the universe, at God. Maybe she really was just hiding in denial, the way Chuck was hiding in grief. The ironic thing was, had Gary been there, he would have gone along and helped her, she knew he would have. He wasn't, though, and Chuck couldn't, and Crumb's credulity was already strained to the breaking point. 

She would let them stay where they were and do what they needed to do. She wasn't going to be accused of trying to hurt anyone. She didn't _want_ to hurt anyone. 

But even if she was alone, she couldn't let go of this. She couldn't let it be the end. In the pre-dawn quiet, her lips still a little sticky from the hot chocolate, Marissa made Gary a promise.

"I am not resigned."


	9. Chapter 9

_"It appears to be paranormal in origin."  
"How can you tell?"  
"Well--it's so shiny."_  
~ Joss Whedon

Marissa had been planning to take a cab to the university. But when she called Patrick early that morning to ask him to take care of deliveries at McGinty's, he pressed her for details, insisting that he had to know where he could find her. 

"Patrick, it doesn't matter. I'll be at the bar later." She drummed her fingers impatiently on the foyer telephone table. She wanted to be gone before Chuck could stop her, but since he was currently sawing logs behind a closed door upstairs, there wasn't much to worry about in that department. 

"It's just..." he said hesitantly, "It's just that yesterday he nearly killed me when I didn't know where you were."

"What? Who nearly killed you?"

"Mr. Crumb. He's a good guy, and I know he was worried about you, but sometimes he reminds me of my Uncle Sean, you know? He's kinda loud, and boy, if he wants something, nobody better get in his way. He always used to scare us kids, even when we weren't kids anymore." 

Twisting the phone cord around her fingers, Marissa wondered if Patrick had an off switch.

"I remember once I was teaching my cousin Bridgit to drive and there was this cow on their farm and it--"

She sighed. "The University of Chicago."

Patrick switched gears without so much as brushing the clutch with his toe. "Oh, you're working on something for a class? Why didn't you say so?"

Why, indeed, Marissa thought, shaking her head at the Patrickleap of logic. At least now he had enough to keep Crumb at bay. "I'll be there as soon as I can, but there's supposed to be a shipment from our meat supplier today. It's important that someone be there to let them in. You know where to find the spare key, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure, it's under the door mat."

"We don't have a door mat."

"Oh, that's right, that's where my mom keeps her key! I remember now; there's a metallic key box under the dumpster. Or, no, wait, that was my frat house."

"Inside the coach light by the front door." They'd be there all day if she waited for him to guess.

"That's it, yeah! Okay, but Miss Clark? How are you getting down to the university? Because," he hurried on before she could wedge in an answer, "I think I should take you there, if you're going by yourself." 

"I'll be fine in a cab, Patrick." She refused to think about all the times Gary had said the same thing, all the late nights when he wouldn't let her take the L home. Between that and Patrick's eager offer of help, her heart would just give up and break. 

"There's a couple of hours before the bar has to be open," he pleaded, "and you really shouldn't go down there alone. The U of C's not in the best neighborhood. Let me take you. I have an extra helmet."

The thought of zooming down Lake Shore Drive on the back of a Harley, clinging to her bartender for dear life, left Marissa more alarmed than gratified. "Patrick, I appreciate you trying to help, but Spike can't fit on your motorcycle. I'll be fine."

"Then I'll stop by McGinty's and get the van. I know Mr. Hobson won't care if--I mean, he wouldn't have--" Patrick choked in horror at his gaffe, and warning bells sounded in Marissa's head. She had to be careful; she couldn't hurt anyone. Regaining his voice, if not his composure, Patrick went on. "He let me drive it all the time. It'll just take me a few minutes to get it, and I can take you wherever you want to go. Please, Miss Clark, I know Mr. Hobson would have wanted me to help you out however I can."

The almost-desperate, aching twinge in his voice cut through her emotional exhaustion and caught at her heart. Knowing that this was more a favor to Patrick than the other way around, Marissa finally gave in. 

She used the computer, still humming from the web search that had led her to decide on the University of Chicago, to compose a note for Chuck, then slipped outside with Spike to wait for Patrick. Her next-door neighbor "Yoo-hoo"ed at her from across the fence. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Gunderson," Marissa called back, and they had a quick conversation about the weather, as if everything was perfectly normal. Luckily, the van pulled up before Helen Gunderson got started on the fall of '74, now _that_ was a cold fall.

Patrick, still learning all the ins and outs of guiding a blind person, nearly fell over himself, Marissa, and Spike in his clumsy attempt to help her into the van. When she finally shook off both his hands and his apologies and settled into her seat, Marissa pulled her bag into her lap, reaching inside until her fingers met metal and glass. Even as she breathed a sigh of relief, she wondered why she needed the reassurance that the strange little globe was still there. 

"So, uh, why U Chicago?" Patrick wasn't comfortable with silence; Marissa had known that since he'd first interviewed for the job at McGinty's. This time he hadn't even buckled his own seat belt before he launched into conversation. "Aren't your classes at Northwestern?"

"They have a better archaeology program at UC, and I need to do some research at the Regenstein library," Marissa said, as if that should explain everything. 

"Why--"

"It's kind of a complicated project."

He got the van going and pulled away from the curb before he said, "You know, whatever it is, I'm sure your profs would understand if you didn't get it done on time."

Resisting the urge to squirm under the weight of the half-truths she was telling, as well as the thought that time could easily be running out for Gary, Marissa gave a nod. "Maybe, but I'd rather finish--"

"You know, my cousin, she knows this guy who has a friend whose girlfriend's brother's roommate died in a car crash the last month of their senior year, and he didn't have to take exams." Patrick was breathless by the time he finished the lineage.

Lost, Marissa frowned. "The boy who died?"

"No, his roommate. It's like an unwritten university law, if your roommate dies, they let you off the hook. Not that--oh, gosh, Miss Clark, not that Mr. Hobson was like your roommate, I didn't mean that! It's just that, you know, since you worked together, and you were really close, I bet you could explain. Or I could explain for you, if you want me to."

"Really, Patrick, it's all right."

"Okay, but if you need me to talk to them, you just let me know. I'm really good at changing people's minds. My mom says I should be a lawyer, but I don't know, it's taken me this long to get almost through undergrad, and law school on top of that might just kill me." He kept up a constant stream of chatter as he navigated the van through the downtown area and toward Hyde Park. Her mind focused elsewhere, Marissa lost track of what he was saying. She made what she guessed were appropriate noises here and there, cracked open the window and let the damp morning air cool her face. A few minutes later, she realized that Patrick had leapfrogged from tangent to tangent, as he was wont to do, until he'd ended up back at the heart of the matter. The last time she'd tuned in, he'd been comparing Pilsners and Ales, and somehow he'd come back to Gary.

"...and Mr. Hobson always liked domestic beer. He was such a regular guy, you know? I told all my friends I had the best boss--the best bosses--in the whole city. I don't know how I got so lucky, until--until the other day, that is." He gulped to a full stop.

What was she supposed to say to that? "I know Gary thinks very highly of you, too." Gary probably would have snorted at that one, but Marissa didn't care. She wanted to give some kind of comfort to this poor guy, who was doing his best to help. Just a few months at the bar, and he already worshipped Gary like a kid brother would; everyone but Gary could see it. 

"Really?"

"He wouldn't have hired you if he didn't."

"But you're the one who hired me."

"Well, he told me later that he was glad I did."

Patrick's whisper, sorrow-laced, drifted to her as the van pulled to a stop, the engine still idling. "Thanks, Miss Clark." He cleared his throat. "Where to now?"

"You can just let me off here, if you'll point me in the direction of the Social Sciences building."

"Are you kidding?" The engine stopped; the keys rattled when he yanked them from the ignition. "I know this place like the back of my hand. I was here for three semesters before I transferred to Northwestern. Don't worry, Miss Clark. I'll take care of everything." Marissa barely had time to undo her seat belt between the moment the driver's side door slammed shut and her own was opened. Patrick gave her a hand out and opened the sliding door at the same time, so that Spike was at her side as soon as her feet touched the ground. 

Patrick's stream of conversation about everything and nothing continued as they crossed campus. It was still early, but they passed plenty of other people, mostly students headed for morning classes, she guessed from the groggy sounds of their voices. Though it was fall, the sun still held some warmth, and she could feel the temperature shifts as they walked in and out of shade. Four blocks from where they'd parked the car, Patrick tugged her to a stop.

"This is it," he told her. "Just to your right here, there's a step up, and then a door." He was already ahead of her, opening it and holding it for Marissa and a couple of students who'd come up behind them. Once they were inside, and the others had gone past, he said, "Here's a directory. Which office are we looking for?"

"There's a Dr. Hazor who's the head of the archaeology department." The building buzzed as offices and classrooms came to life. 

"Might as well go straight to the top! The directory says he's just down this hall." 

Before Marissa could try, again, to shake her determined escort, he'd grabbed her free arm and was leading her forward. "Okay, now when we go in there--"

"When I go in there," Marissa corrected.

"But Miss Clark--"

She planted her feet; pulled Spike to an emphatic stop. "Patrick, I appreciate your help, I really do, but I can manage this on my own. I'll be fine. Besides, I need you back at the bar." 

"You do?"

She nodded. "I'm counting on you to make sure everything goes smoothly today." Gesturing toward the door, she added, "They can call me a cab when I'm done."

"No way, Miss Clark. You tell them to call me, okay? No, wait, I'll tell them." 

"Well, I'm not exactly sure when I'll be finished." But Marissa, who knew a thing or two about being stubborn, realized Patrick wasn't going to give in on this one. He marched through the doorway and introduced them both to the receptionist. Before Marissa could get a word in edgewise, he'd given McGinty's phone number to the befuddled woman. 

"You're sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked one more time. 

"Yes, I'm sure. Thank you." 

"Okay, well, don't work too hard!"

Marissa let out a sigh of relief as the door swooshed shut behind her.

"What did he say you needed for your class?" The receptionist's hesitant voice fell into the stillness of Hurricane Patrick's wake. 

Marissa pulled herself up to her full height and stepped closer to the voice, to what she assumed was the reception desk. "Actually, I'm not here for a class. This is a personal errand. I have an artifact that I'd like someone to take a look at."

"Oh, well, Dr. Hazor isn't in today, but maybe one of the grad students can help you." The young woman's words ended in a curious inflection, an uplift of pitch at the end of each sentence that made it sound as if everything was a question. "They seem to know as much as their professors do, and Andrew's probably down in his office already."

"Is he?" Immediately chiding herself for the sarcasm that had slipped through, Marissa shifted the strap on her shoulder, adjusting for the extra weight in her bag. "Does he know anything about British archaeology? I think what I have might be from England or Ireland." 

"Oh, then you want Josh. Andrew's all about the Mayans, but Josh knows more about the European stuff, you know?" There was the creak of ancient chair springs, then the muffled slip-slap of soft-soled shoes, around the desk, then at her side. "His office is in the basement. I'll take you there. My name's Ruby, by the way. I don't want to be un-PC or anything, but how do we do this?"

"Go on ahead; Spike and I will follow." 

"Okay, cool."

Wondering if she'd sounded so young in her own days as a receptionist, Marissa let Spike take the lead, and they followed the girl down two flights of stairs to the basement, or perhaps the sub-basement, if it was this deep in the earth.

"You look kind of familiar." The receptionist's voice bounced off the walls of the stairwell. "Have I seen you somewhere, like on TV or something?"

"I doubt it." Marissa had a pretty good idea where Ruby might have seen her; all that press had been down on the pier during the search for Gary. But she wasn't about to discuss it with a stranger. The stairway door clanged behind them, its echo rushing past Spike's clicking claws and Marissa's tapping heels to announce their arrival. She shivered as they slowed, then halted. The hallway air was cold and stale, but surely the feeling that mysterious secrets were suspended there, brushing against her face, was just her own overtaxed imagination.

"Hey, Ruby." The voice that greeted them when the receptionist knocked on a metal door frame was warm and friendly, although more than a bit groggy. like Chuck's had been in the middle of the night. "What's up?"

"Did you sleep here again?" Ruby sounded half-annoyed, half-amused.

"Not exactly slept, but yeah. My roommates were having a party and I need to finish grading midterms for the 206 class."

"Bummer. You want coffee? I just started a pot."

"You're my hero, Ruby, you know that?" 

The girl giggled, then touched Marissa's elbow, coaxing her forward. "Josh, this is--um--Melissa--"

"Marissa Clark." She held out her right hand; it was grasped by long, thin fingers, even longer than Patrick's, but callused and work-worn. 

"Josh Gardner."

"She brought something for Dr. Hazor to look at, but she didn't want to wait." Ruby's voice came from right over Marissa's shoulder, and Spike pressed up against her leg in the tight space left to them. "It sounded like it might be right up your alley."

"Oh, yeah?" The grogginess lifted, and tentative excitement charged the air.

Marissa shifted Spike's harness in her hands. She'd already determined, from the low tones the others were using and the way sound fell on her ears, that this so-called office wasn't much bigger than a closet. It definitely wasn't big enough for the three of them plus Spike. Trapped between the grad student and the receptionist, Marissa had a hard time collecting her words. "I know this will sound strange, but it's really important, and I don't have much time to figure it out."

"Archaeological emergency, huh? Don't worry, we get those all the time. We're like the ER of Chicago archaeology, though I'm no George Clooney." 

"Don't sell yourself short." Marissa tried to smile, but the gesture felt unfamiliar and strange. "For all I know, you look just like him."

Ruby giggled again; Josh laughed, warm and genuine. "Trust me, the guy's got nothing to worry about. How 'bout coffee? There's gotta be an extra mug around here, right, Ruby?" he added when Marissa nodded at the idea of a caffeine boost. Despite her long sleep the night before, she felt weariness hovering, waiting to catch her off guard.

"Sure. Back in a few." 

Ruby's soft footfalls receded toward the stairwell. In the little office, chairs scraped on the tile floor; one of them banged into something metal, maybe a file cabinet. 

"C'mon in, uh--here, chair's just to your right, uh, three o'clock, does that help? Cool dog." The long fingers barely brushed her elbow indicating direction, and Marissa sat in a squeaky office chair whose padding had long since petrified. Spike settled down next to the chair, nudging her foot with his nose. A fluorescent light hummed overhead, and the heating system clanked and banged inside the walls. Somewhere farther into the room, possibly even inside the wall at the back, there was a faint drip, which probably accounted for the musty smell. Something told Marissa they didn't keep many valuable artifacts in here. Those were probably treated better than the department's graduate students.

She reached into her bag. "I guess we should just get started." 

"Yeah, let's have a look at--whoa," Josh breathed when she pulled out the globe Kelyn had given Gary. "That's--uh--wow."

"It belongs to a friend of mine." Marissa rubbed the base with her thumb as she held it out in her open palms. The connection grounded her, kept her from fumbling the explanation she'd rehearsed. "He just discovered it recently, and he needs--we need--to know what it is, what it's for, how old it is, where it came from, that kind of thing. But most of all, there's this." She took a deep breath, then turned the contraption over so that she was cradling the glass sphere in her hands and Josh could see the inside of the stand that held it. "I think there's some kind of writing there. I need to know what it says."

"May I?" She could feel Josh's fingers on hers, the slight pressure, but he waited for her nod before he took it. The thought crossed her mind that it was like letting go of Gary, somehow, but Marissa knew that wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Her empty hands remained poised in the air for a moment, then dropped to her knees, and she entwined her fingers, forcing them still.

Josh let out a soft whistle. "This is old--not just antique store old, but old. Could be Celtic, maybe Scottish or Irish, but that's hard to tell at this point. What do you know about its history? Anything you can tell me about the context would help."

"The context?"

"Where it was found, what else was with it, what it's been doing all this time. Context."

Marissa wondered if a recent dunking in Lake Michigan counted as context. "I don't know much at all," she admitted. "It belonged to another family. My friend received it from someone who inherited it from her grandmother." No way was Marissa going to bring Lucius Snow into this. 

"Hmmm...so not much to go on. Hey, did you know this base is real silver?"  
  
She hadn't known that. Not that it made much difference. Shaking her head, she reached down to stroke Spike's head, digging her fingers through the wiry hair on top to the softer down beneath. "Frankly, that's not what interests me." Trying to give him some information he could use, she added, "The family had all kinds of stories attached to it that nobody quite seems to remember anymore, something about--"

"Dragons?" 

Her hand froze between Spike's ears. A dragon slayer, the letter had said. "How did you know?" 

"It says so right here." Josh's initial excitement had spun itself into absorption with the task at hand; his voice, while interested, was more detached. "You were right; there is an inscription. It's hard to read. I'm surprised you could feel anything at all."

Marissa pulled her hands back into her lap. "What does it say about the dragons?"

"The problem is, it's not in any form of English. Looks like one of the Gaelic languages, which makes sense given the design. The only word I can make out right now is d-r-a-g-a-n, which, of course, means dragon." 

If Gary really was battling dragons, he would definitely need help. Marissa shook her head so fiercely her earrings rattled against her cheek. Where had that thought come from? "What is it, what's it for?" 

"The people who first made it would have called it a scrying glass. Druids used them to find out what was happening across long distances, or to tell the future." The scrape of his chair against the old linoleum floor covered Marissa's sharp intake of breath. A file drawer slid open, and his voice was muffled. "Let me find a flashlight and see if that helps." There were sounds of rummaging in the drawer while Marissa tried to sort out what he was saying, what she had already heard, and what it all had to do with Gary. Was this some early version of the paper?

"Could they really see anything in that?"

"Well," Josh said, and the scavenging stopped, his voice growing more animated. "It's like this. We've been conditioned for so long to see the world one way. The rational scientific point of view. A causes B, but only if you can prove it through the senses or with mathematics. We look down our noses at any other way. We think of pre-Enlightenment cultures, except maybe the Greeks and Romans, as fearful, cowering people who didn't understand the natural occurrences we explain away with science. But the thing is, those people didn't live in fear of nature and the wrath of their gods. They lived in harmony with the world as they saw it. So maybe that way of seeing things, that lens, led them to see things that we can't. And maybe the way we explain it today, our translations of the little written record that exists, can't really convey what they meant when they used words like 'scrying' and 'dragon.'"

"You mean they were speaking in metaphors?"

He was on his feet, his voice coming from above, with minute variations that made Marissa suspect he was pacing, though not far in this tiny room. "Kind of. But it's extremely difficult, if not impossible, for us to understand what the metaphors meant to them, not without better points of reference. When I say 'circle', I see a shape in my mind, a picture, but your mental image is going to be different, because you experience circles in a different way than I do, with your hands mostly, I'd guess. Or words--when I read, I see the words, but you feel them, so we have different images for them in our minds, and you have textures where I have pictures. Does that make any sense?"

Hands clasped, Marissa traced a circle on one palm with the opposite thumb. "You're saying we can't understand what they believed without knowing more about the context in which they believed it."

"Yeah, exactly." He sounded surprised, happy that someone was on his wavelength. "I don't mean that they only thought this kind of stuff was pretty decoration, though. On some level, it was real to them. Obviously the Celts who made this saw something valuable in it. No society goes on repeating dead-end patterns of behavior for centuries, it just doesn't happen..." He trailed off. "Sorry. It's just, my dissertation's all about that stuff, and I've had to fight pretty hard to get some of the faculty to go along with it. I end up preaching way too much."

Marissa smiled. "It's okay. If I understand what you're talking about, I think I agree with you."

"Any one way of looking at the world and how it works is going to be limited once it sets boundaries, you know?" Josh was in front of her now, near his chair and the file cabinet. "Right now science can't explain everything, and it won't be able to if we keep our boundaries too narrow. All kinds of stuff happens, every day, that we never hear about because it just doesn't fit the rational scientific point of view, and if we ignore it enough, we think it'll go away."

"But it doesn't." Marissa didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He'd just described Gary's daily predicament. "There are more things in heaven and earth..."

"Exactly!" The file drawer slammed shut and Josh plopped into his chair. "But try to get a bunch of academics to buy into this. If you can't prove it with statistics or cite at least five previous examples from the literature, forget it. Even the ethnologists--"

"Oh, great, you set him off again, didn't you?" Ruby had returned, bringing the smell of the coffee with her. "Now he'll keep going all day, just like a wind-up toy. Here ya go." 

Warm ceramic brushed her fingertips; Marissa wrapped her hands around the mug and sipped, losing herself for a moment in the heady scent. "Thank you," she said, "this really is wonderful."

"Gotta be better than Josh talking your ear off," Ruby said. After a brief pause, she added, "Um, Josh? Could I see you out in the hall for just a sec?"

"Sure. Excuse me."

Marissa nodded, and tuned out the whispered conference that took place down the hall. She sipped at the coffee and tried to make sense of the bits and pieces she'd learned so far. If the scrying glass really could help people see the future, it would explain the connection to Gary and Lucius Snow, though the significance of dragons and Celts still confused her. And how could it have made Gary disappear?

"No, Ruby, it's all right. Doesn't make any difference." There was a firm note in Josh's voice, and then he was back in the room. "Sorry about that. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah, flashlight. You know what? I could see more if we took this into the lab and cleaned it up a bit. And by then Coop will be in, and she can take a look--Betsy Cooper, she's another grad student here. She'd love this stuff. She's on the archeo-linguistics track, and she knows the ancient variations of the languages."

"That would be wonderful, if you have time, but what do you mean, clean it up?" Marissa's jittery instincts warred with her reason. Just knowing that someone else had Gary's talisman was making her nervous, even though the someone else was only a few feet away. It was a perfectly ridiculous reaction, and probably justified everything Chuck and Crumb thought about her current state of mind. 

"Just polish it a bit, that's all. Get the tarnish out so we can read what's carved there." After a pause, Josh added, "Trust me, Ms. Clark, I'm not going to do anything that would take away from its value of the artifact. I would never want to damage anything like this."

"It's not that," she assured him quickly. "I don't care what it's worth." She reached out and found the desk, set the coffee mug down. "May I go with you? How long will it take?"

"Sure. And I don't know. Not too long. Unless you want to leave it with me. We could take photographs and do an x-ray, maybe scrape for carbon dating."

"No," Marissa gasped. "No. I can't leave it here." 

There was a brief pause, and she knew he'd read something in her reaction. "Where did you say you got this?"

"From a friend." Marissa's spine went stiff. He was definitely not disinterested anymore. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking."

"No!" He gave a half-laugh, and she relaxed, but only until he said, "It's just, this friend, it wouldn't have been a friend who--" Josh's chair creaked again as he sat down, and his voice went soft and quiet. "Ruby remembered you from your picture in the paper, and she told me what happened out at the lake."

Marissa sucked in air between her teeth. One hand reached for Spike's harness, and the dog stood.

"Does this change the context?" When she didn't answer, he added gently, "Is there anything else I should know?"

Lifting her chin, Marissa set her voice in stone. "No." Her hand tightened around the harness. She would bolt if she had to. But then she remembered the way he'd fended off Ruby, kind of like Crumb had held the reporters at bay near the pier, and that brought her back to Gary. She couldn't let pride or fear or whatever was making her feel so unnerved here stand in the way of doing what she could for him. "I just need to know what this thing is, and what those words mean."

After a few moments of silence there was a slap, palm against wood. 

"Okay. Let's go to the lab and see what we can find out."  


* * *

  
_In the middle of the journey of our life  
I came to myself within a dark wood  
Where the straight way was lost._  
~ Dante

Loud bird song woke Gary; fresh cool air teased over his face. He sat up and stretched, frightening away a robin who'd been perched on the sill of the open window. 

Definitely not Chicago.

From the low bed, only a patch of pale blue sky laced with thin cirrus clouds was visible out the window. Keeping his grunts low as he tested his stiff rib cage and battered shoulders, Gary glanced around the tiny, curtained-off room. No Cat, no paper, at least not yet.

He'd slept on the larger of the two beds. Larger, of course, was a relative term. It was about the size of the twin bed he'd had as a boy, and the straw-filled mattress certainly wasn't going to do much for his back and shoulders. Still, he was sure he was better off than that guy Robert. Shivering as much from the memory of the previous night as from the chilly breeze, Gary grimaced. When they'd returned to the cottage, Morgelyn, stone-faced and speaking through a tightly clenched jaw, had insisted that he take the bed. She'd stayed up to read. Whether it was about her herbal remedies or the scrying glass, she hadn't said, and Gary hadn't dared to ask. Fergus had tried to talk to her, but one "Good night," delivered with steel in her voice and lightning in her eyes, had been enough to send both men scurrying. Gary had fallen asleep listening to parchment pages turning and the fire crackling, his thoughts worrying over crazy warnings and moonlit moors. At least he'd slept, though. Stumbling out into the main room, he became convinced that Morgelyn had not. 

Open books were strewn over the table; there wasn't even a small space where she might have dropped her head to doze. Two stubs of beeswax candles had gutted out, but the fire was blazing, and something that smelled like oatmeal was bubbling in the cooking pot. Otherwise, the cottage was quiet and Gary was alone for the first time since that night at the ocean. He wondered where the others had gone, but figured they were cleaning up at the river, like yesterday.

Running his tongue over his front teeth, he wished for a toothbrush. Heck, he thought, scratching the back of his neck, any brush. Even the small comb he usually carried in his jacket had been lost in the river. But he might as well do what he could. Pocketing the little knife he'd need to shave, he stepped through the open front door into the hazy brightness of the morning. A riotous, ravenous squawking rose from a nest above the door--that must have been the robin's family. He was halfway to the garden gate when he heard voices from the trees beyond, quiet but intense.

"I am certain it is a bad idea. After what happened yesterday, how can you think of going at all?"

"That is exactly why I should be there. If I stay away, what will they think? Mark and Simon will spread tales about me, saying I'm off at the standing stones dancing with the other witches."

"What other witches?" Fergus asked suspiciously.

They were at it again. Out of habit, Gary started toward the voices. He still couldn't see them; they were just around the bend in the path. 

"There are none. Tthat is my point!" Morgelyn's voice was exasperated, with an undercurrent of weariness. "If we go, they will see that I am the same woman I have ever been."

"But--"

"We will go, Fergus."

"What do you mean by 'we'? You cannot take Gary."

He froze, one hand on the gate. 

"'Twould be a disaster," Fergus continued. "He stands out almost as much as--"

"As I?" Morgelyn's cold tone dared her friend to agree with her. 

"He is half a head taller than anyone in Gwenyllan, and the moment he opens his mouth he could doom us all."

"He will not, and the simple truth is, we cannot leave him here alone. And if what I learned last night is true, then he should spend time in the village with us."

Was she talking about what the old man had said, or something she'd found in her books? What did it have to do with him? Didn't she trust him by himself? Gary wasn't sure he wanted to know what it all meant. His face was getting warmer by the minute.

"Morgelyn, be sensible. Father Ezekiel is already suspicious, Mark Styles is simply insane, and Lady Nessa is looking for ways to get her claws into this town and stir up trouble, you said so yourself. Did you see the way she went after Gary yesterday?"

"Like a hawk after prey, yes. But I am sure Gary is used to such attention. He will not be offended if Nessa--"

"I care little for his feelings."

"Fergus!"

"It is you I worry about. Why give them more cause to doubt you? Leave him here, and tell them he has gone away. He will never fit in, and how will you explain him? You could not carry off a lie if I handed it to you in a bucket!"

Twigs snapped and leaves rustled, punctuating the argument. 

"Morgelyn, come back."

"I do not have to listen to you!"

The thrust and parry continued, fading out of Gary's hearing. He knew it was cowardly, but he didn't follow. His mother had always told him that eavesdroppers heard what they least wished to know about themselves, and once again, she'd been proven correct. Besides, after last night, he just didn't have the will to play peacemaker. He'd reached this point with Chuck and Marissa once or twice, and a guy had to know his limits.

Since going to the river was out of the question, Gary drew a bucket from the little well in the front garden and cleaned up with that, shivering anew at the cold water on his skin. Wasn't this supposed to be early summer? Didn't feel much like it, but then, what did he know of English--Cornish--weather? Or history, or medicine, or anything? 

He wandered back into the cabin and stirred the porridge for the heck of it. Maybe he should go ahead and eat. Who knew how long those two would be arguing, or what they'd decide? Or how long this particular bungee jump into the past was going to last? He straightened up and glanced longingly at his own clothes. Chicago, 1998, folded neatly on a shelf on the far wall. Maybe if he did stay here today, they wouldn't mind if he put them on. If he could just feel like himself for a little while, he might be better able to figure everything out. 

But wasn't that what the paper was for? He'd never been without one for two days in a row. The old one, the one he'd brought with him, wasn't with his clothes, and looking around for it gave him something else to occupy his time. Finally he found it on the table, under Morgelyn's books. 

So she'd been trying to read the _Sun-Times_ , along with everything else. Probably couldn't get more than the pictures, not with their versions of English being so very different. Still, the story she'd left it opened to didn't have a picture. 

Missing...Presumed...

He sat down on the bench with a thump. He didn't know what to hope for anymore. He wanted to help, but despite his resolve, it was wrenching to think that people back home thought...what that article said they thought. Of course, if the rules of time were suspended enough, maybe if--when--he got back home, no time at all would have passed, and the story would change. Maybe that's why a new paper hadn't come. Or maybe it was because they didn't have newspapers here. 

Or maybe he was just losing his mind, Gary thought, rubbing his forehead with the thumb and first finger of his right hand. He half-wished Fergus and Morgelyn would bring their argument back to the cabin; having all this time alone to think might not be such a good thing.

Okay, think good thoughts. There was a way home, right? But according to what Morgelyn had told him, he couldn't return unless someone back home helped, and in order for that to happen, they'd have to know he was gone, so time had to be passing in Chicago, too, time in which they all thought he was at the bottom of Lake Michigan. 

No matter what, the choices seemed bleak. If everyone at home thought he'd drowned, would they even look for, or be able to find, that scrying glass? Was it even there--and then? Or had it been lost to them in his wild trip through water and time? 

Gary stood again and walked toward the fire, his gaze focused on the crystal globe which sat on the nearby shelf. After a moment's deliberation and a deep breath, he lifted the glass from the shelf, turning it in his hands, considering. Something told him Kelyn Gillespie hadn't known what this thing was capable of, and so, while he couldn't blame her for what had happened, he also couldn't expect her to know enough to get him back home. Crumb hadn't had a clue about what was going on, just that Kelyn had seemed, in the ex-cop's words, "a little spooky." That left Marissa. She was the only one who could possibly guess at the truth. The question was, would she? If only they'd had more time to figure it out together before all this started. If only there was some way to talk to her now.

His breath caught in his throat when a ray of sun shot from a break in the clouds through the window and right into the center of the sphere. Gary fumbled with the globe, nearly dropping it on the rushes. There were colors inside it again, whirling around in the glass like some demented rainbow. He moved closer to the window, his heart pounding in time with the pulse and swirl of colors, brilliant jewels, soft pastels; bright and soft mixed and separated, swirled and parted. It looked....it looked....

It looked just like it had right before he'd fallen in the lake. 

But this time there was more, there was a feeling. It hit him in the gut, sorrow and fear and someone needed him. Not just someone, Marissa needed him.

What if she was in trouble?

Gary couldn't get to her, but he could get to the next best thing. He had to know what this meant. Cradling the ball in an uncertain hand, he left the cabin and headed for the river.  


* * *

  
_Antiquities are history defaced, or some  
remnants of history which have escaped  
the shipwreck of time._  
~ Francis Bacon

"This is great! There's writing all over this thing. The metalwork and the style of lettering ought to give us a clue as to how old it is..." Josh was trying to explain the cleaning process and what he was finding, but he trailed off, his thoughts unfinished, every time he found something new. He'd make a great absent-minded professor, Marissa thought with a wry smile. She was perched on a stool, one foot hooked behind the bottom rung and the other swinging back and forth, the thick heel of her shoe hitting the stool's leg in a tight rhythm. Her hand rested on the metal top of a lab table for balance. Josh was working a few feet down the table. 

"I hope you're not offended or anything, but I'm really amazed you were able to figure out these were letters. Nobody else told you about them?"

"No, no one else knows," Marissa said softly, and pushed that ache back in place, behind the hum of the overhead lights and the chemical tang of the silver polish. "Can you make out anything besides the word 'dragon'?" 

"It might be an incantation." He let out a long breath, like a diver coming up for air. "I'm not sure, though. I mean, I know a little Gaelic, both Irish and Scots. Enough to read the signs in the pubs when we're there on a dig. But this is older. I'm not sure I can make out more than a word or two. It's like trying to translate Middle English into modern Russian. It's gonna take a while, and it's gonna take Betsy Cooper."

"You said she's a student?" Marissa didn't mean to sound dubious, but it was important to get this right.

"Yeah, but Betsy knows more than most of her profs about the archeolinguistics of these civilizations. She puts the languages and the archaeology together, and she's really focused on the Celtic cultures. The big boys upstairs mostly care about the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Mayans. The moneymakers at the museums, you know? Like that Bastet exhibit last winter. Boy, did that rake in the bucks." He chuckled softly.

Marissa had to grip the tabletop with all her strength to keep from toppling off the stool. Josh didn't seem to notice. "I'm gonna go see if Betsy's in her office, okay? I'll be right back." 

"Sure," Marissa mumbled distantly. There was the clink of metal on metal as he set the globe down on the table, followed by footsteps, and then the door clicked open, fell shut.

When she felt steady enough to move again, Marissa hopped off the stool, made her way to the end of the table, and felt through tins and jars and clothes until she found the...what had he called it? A scrying glass. She couldn't explain her relief when she cradled it in her hands again. "Dragons and magic. What are we going to do?" she murmured, to Spike if no one else. "How does all this help Gary?" Just saying his name out loud sent an aching jolt through her. The soft twang of his voice, that cheap after shave he sometimes wore, a rare laugh; she would have given anything at that moment for those. Whatever was going on, whether he was coming back or not, she missed her friend. 

Swiping the heel of her left hand across her eyes, Marissa pulled the globe in close to her chest with her right. Unbidden thoughts brushed at her like butterfly wings. _Timebound_ , she thought, and wondered what it meant. _Timebound, firetorn, salve nos._

"What?" she whispered. _Firetorn._ The glass felt warmer than it had before.

The soft swoosh of the lab door swinging open announced Josh's arrival. "Coop wasn't in her office. Hey, what's going on?" Josh's question rose into the register of incredulity as he stepped closer. "What did you do to it?"

_Ad adjuvandum me festina._

Marissa shook her head, and the strange words went scattering, rearranged themselves, but still, it was her own voice she heard. _Timetorn, firebound..._ She held the glass out so that he could see. "I didn't do anything."

"Then why is it changing color? How is it doing this?" Josh lifted the scrying glass out of her hands, leaving her fingers treading empty air. "It's like a whole rainbow in here."

Changing colors, just like when Gary had--oh, no. "Josh," Marissa said through a lurch of fear, "Josh, put it down. Please."

Little-boy wonder was stronger than Marissa's growing alarm. "This isincredible. How did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything, and that's why it's dangerous. Josh, please, give it to me now. You shouldn't be holding it. Please, put it down, or hand it over."

Finally, her panic must have registered. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"I don't know, but please, give it back to me." 

Warm glass and warm metal, vibrating slightly, filled her hands-- _firebound, timetorn_ \--and Marissa's breath caught in her throat because for a minute, just for a minute, it was so warm and real that the strands of metal at the base of the scrying glass didn't feel like silver. They felt like--

_...ad adjuvandum ..._

\--though it should have been impossible--

_...me festina..._

\--like Gary's fingers reaching for hers.

"Oh my God," she breathed, half in wonder, half in supplication. "Gary?"

"Hey, what--"

Spike woofed. 

Cat yowled from the table next to her, right at her elbow.

Marissa spun toward the sound, and a pair of claws sank into the flesh between her thumb and first finger. Cat had never hurt her before, but now he scratched again, so sharp and deep that she gasped and dropped the crystal ball onto the table. Hissing and meowing, Cat butted its body between her outstretched hands and the ball, and it rattled away against the metal surface.

"What's--why--how--what the--" Josh sounded even more confused than Marissa felt. "It stopped, as soon as you dropped it, it just blinked out, it, What did you mean, dangerous? And how the hell did a cat get in here?" He reached past Marissa as she shook her head and cradled her injured left hand in her right, wishing the sting would ease. "Nothing like this has ever happened before, but then again, artifacts don't just burst into pyrotechnics, or whatever that was just now." Josh paused, waiting for a response that Marissa still couldn't form. "Not unless it's some kind of modern fake. But it can't be. I still don't know where this cat could have come from."

She swallowed hysterical giggles; didn't tell Josh that no one ever knew where Cat came from. "It didn't want me to hold that thing," she murmured, thinking out loud.

"Want?" Cat was mewling in Josh's arms, but not angrily, not now that the crystal ball was out of her hands. When she didn't answer, he asked, "Did the cat have something to do with--what am I saying? Let me get rid of it, and I'll find the first aid kit, okay?"

"Wait." She held out her arms. "Let me have the cat."

"But it drew blood," Josh said, baffled.

"I know this cat. He didn't mean to hurt me, it'll be all right, he's a good cat, really," Marissa babbled while she tried to figure out what had just happened, what it all meant, and why Cat didn't want-- _really_ didn't want--her to hold the globe when it was like that, any more than she'd wanted Josh to. Cat settled into her arms, licking her scratches apologetically and purring against her wrist. Pulling the warm bundle of fur in close, Marissa had to blink back more tears. "It's okay, Cat," she murmured into its neck. "It's okay now." 

With a grunt that Marissa interpreted as, "Suit yourself," Josh walked across the lab, rattled around in a cabinet for a moment, and returned. "First aid kit. Told you we were the ER of archaeology. Here, give me your hand."

Spike whined as Marissa settled herself back onto the stool, his way of asking if there was anything he could do. She held out her left hand toward Josh's voice, but kept Cat encircled in her right arm, holding onto it like a promise. A tiny gasp escaped her when the cleaning solution on the towelette Josh applied stung deep into the cut on the back of her hand. 

"Sorry." Josh dabbed up the residue with a gauze pad and started applying bandages. "We only have the little ones right now, it's gonna take three. How did you know it was your cat?"

Why did her hand have to start shaking? It was a perfectly reasonable question. "I know what Cat sounds like."

"That's it's name? Cat?" 

"It's the only name Ga--the only name I've ever heard."

"Okay..." Josh drew it out, as if he still wasn't satisfied with her answer. When she didn't elaborate, he went on, "Don't all cats sound the same?"

"No. And they don't all smell like this cat, either."

"So it's like, what, your familiar?" His voice was only half joking, but Marissa couldn't answer; couldn't tell him that in a strange way, that's what Cat was, for Gary. Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, she scratched Cat behind the ears. Securing the final bandage with a pat, Josh released her hand and took a step away. "Hey, whatever was happening with that thing before, it's stopped now. Okay if I pick it up?" 

Nodding, Marissa let out a sigh, part relief, part regret for what might have happened, if not for Cat. It had been Gary, for that brief moment; somehow, they had connected. She could feel the weight of Josh's determined curiosity as he asked, "You want to tell me what that was all about? More context?"

More context than she could ever explain. "Something like that. Can you see anything on it that might have caused it to change?" 

"No. But--wow. I mean, wow. It's one thing to theorize about magic and all that, but to see it happen right in front of me--" A stool scraped across the floor. "Do you mind if I just get a little freaked out here?"

"Only if I can join you." 

Cat mewed and wriggled against her arm. Knowing he would find its own way to wherever it was supposed to be next, she let him slip down, and he padded away across the lab floor. It was beyond difficult not to follow, not to plead for something, anything that would lead her to Gary. But Cat did things in his own time, and for now Marissa supposed she would have to trust him. 

"Geez, this thing was going all Finian's Rainbow right there in your hand. But there's nothing here that could have caused it. Do you think that you could do it again? I could get the video camera." Josh must have read something in her face. "Okay, yeah, wrong idea."

"I promise you, I have no idea how it happened, or why it stopped."

"Has it ever done that before?"

The echo of Gary's voice on the pier, telling her the globe was changing, glowing, mixed in her head with residual words-- _ad adjuvandum, timetorn_ \--"Just one time," she finally managed, and held out her hands. Josh understood right away; he gave her the globe without protest. Cool and unresponsive, it rested impassively in her hands. "I don't understand this," she said, meaning the words she'd heard as well as what Josh had seen. "I don't understand any of it."

"This has something to do with your friend, doesn't it? Your friend who died."

"Disappeared," Marissa corrected, tracing circles on the glass. "They haven't found him yet." She wondered if she should ask Josh about the words that had come to her, but they were so strange, not even words, really, and some of them in a language she didn't know. They'd sounded like Latin. It wasn't that she didn't trust Josh, but she was afraid to give the words her voice, to give them weight. She was afraid of what they would cause.

Silence spiraled through the room; finally, Josh must have realized that she wasn't going to elaborate. "Is there anything more, anything at all, that you want to tell me about all this?"

"I'm sorry," she murmured, fingertips brushing the scratches under the stand that meant something, that somehow meant Gary. "I've taken up so much of your time already. Maybe I should go."

"Wait, I shouldn't have brought that up. Don't leave." She had half-turned away, but Josh stopped her, barely brushing her shoulder with his hand. The genuine sympathy in his voice couldn't disguise the edge of desperation, and she knew he feared losing the find of a lifetime when he continued, "I know this isn't easy for you, whatever 'this' is. I'm sorry I got weirded out, but whatever's happening is freaky, and you and I both know it. But I do want to know more, and I want to help if I can."

Marissa gulped. How could she say no to that? "You can help by telling me what the inscription means." 

He sighed. "There's gonna be a little delay there. Betsy's taken her freshmen out to a dig site. But if you let me show this to her when she gets back tonight, I'm sure she can come up with something."

"No." Even though it pulled against the cuts on her hand, she tightened her grip on the scrying glass. "I can't leave it."

There was a pause, then: "Okay. That's fair, after whatever just happened. Let me write down what I can see, and take a picture or two before you go, okay? It won't hurt anything, I promise. And I'll corner Coop as soon as she gets back in. Deal?"

It took a moment, again, before Marissa could relinquish the globe to Josh. "Deal," she finally said, wondering if the library had any Latin dictionaries in Braille.   


* * *

  
_I dreamt I brought a book for you to see  
Page after page were familiar faces  
Walking behind in a joyous line  
Heroes, saints, and some so old  
Their names had been lost in the fog of time  
Hand in hand, we stepped on in  
True and forevermore_  
~ Carrie Newcomer

Gary could hardly be bothered to look at the path ahead of him, so caught up was he in gazing at the colors in the crystal ball. It felt different in his hands, warmer, as though the metal was alive, was becoming something else. He wasn't quite sure what. And then, just for a moment, he thought he heard Marissa's voice.

"Gary?"

That was when he ran into the tree. His head hit the trunk with a _clonk_.

"Yow!" 

Both hands came up to cradle his head and stop the spinning world. Reaching through his muddled mind for the lost voice--it had been Marissa, no accent but Chicago's, no language but his own, so sad and scared--he felt the scrying glass roll over his feet. It was a moment before he could catch his breath, blink the light back into his eyes, and bend to retrieve the globe, which had landed in a patch of something green, dotted with little white flowers. He held it up to the sunlight.

Nothing. It was empty again. 

Gary blew out an exasperated breath, rubbing his throbbing forehead one more time. If ever he got home, he vowed, he'd never go anywhere without a few aspirin in his pocket. Gritting his teeth, he marched determinedly down to the river.

Fergus was sitting just out of reach of the waterfall's spray, his back against one of the willow trees that overhung the river. A kind of miniature harp sat on his lap, its strings sticking up crazily. For some reason, they reminded Gary of Patrick's hair. Fergus held a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a small knife in the other.

"Where is she?" Gary asked without preamble. 

"Morgelyn?" Fergus asked through a mouthful of bread. He shrugged, then swallowed and held out the loaf. "Off in a temper somewhere. Breakfast?"

Ignoring the bread, Gary scratched the back of his head. "You were giving her a hard time again, weren't you? I heard some of that this morning," he added when Fergus lifted an eyebrow. 

"I told her the truth." Fergus turned a pointed stare on the object in Gary's hands. "Are you thinking of going home?"

Is that what they'd been worried about, arguing over? Did they really think he'd just run out on them? "No." He paused. After Fergus's tirades the day before, Gary wasn't sure it would be a good idea to discuss something so obviously magical with him. "You don't know where she is at all?"

Fergus set the bread down on the ground and started sawing away at one of the longer strings with his knife. He nodded down the path to the ocean. "That way. She usually goes to the shore when she wants to think. Hopefully," he added dryly, "the walk will put her in a better mood."

"Okay. Thanks." Gary took a couple of steps, then turned back. "I'm not going home until this thing is over."

Fergus shrugged. "See if you can talk any sense into her. Though between the two of you, I don't know who's the worse fool." He was absorbed in untangling his strings before Gary could form a reply. 

As he walked, keeping an eye out for trees this time, Gary tried to puzzle through what he knew. The strange little globe had changed once before, when Morgelyn had brought him to her time. Yesterday she'd said that she'd succeeded because there was a threat, trouble in the making. What if he really had heard Marissa a few minutes ago? Did that mean she was in trouble, too? How could he keep the promise he'd just made, if she needed him right now? But it was two different times, wasn't it?

He reached the cliff, the boulder he had found that first night, and in the light of day he could see the gentler slope off to his right, with rocks fitted in like stair steps down to the broad shore. It was only when he started down the slope that he realized he was wearing the soft-soled boots Morgelyn had given him, and not his own, sturdier shoes. He hadn't picked them out consciously. Must be acclimatizing, he thought ruefully, and then shuddered. God forbid he should ever get used to this. Picking his way down the slope as carefully as he could, he watched each step until his feet hit damp sand. He guessed it was low tide; the strip of beach was wet, littered with shells and beds of kelp. 

The ocean was even louder down here. The immensity of the roiling blue-green water stretched before him and to either side. It dwarfed the boulders, the cliffs, and the tiny figure down the beach, little more than a silhouette against the morning sun. Squawking gulls scattered when Gary called her name, and she turned from gazing at the sea to wave, one hand shading her eyes. 

The soft boots couldn't protect his feet from the cold salt water, colder than Lake Michigan in November. The closer he got to Morgelyn, the sloshier his walk became. She stood at the very edge of the water, the waves just covering her bare feet as they rolled in, then receded. The hem of her skirt was tucked up in a belt, exposing her ankles, and Gary realized that if he'd had any sense he would have stopped to take off his own shoes and roll up the wool pants. Way too late for that, he realized, when a particularly eager wave snuck up the beach, dousing him halfway to his knees. Damn, that water was cold. Morgelyn's chuckle at his wordless exclamation cut through the low roar of water over sand. He hurried up the beach a few feet before the next wave could get him, removed the sodden shoes, and rolled up the legs of the pants as best he could with the scrying glass tucked under one arm. Wool might be itchy, but wet wool would be unbearable. 

"I meant no offense, you just looked so surprised," Morgelyn said with a smile as she stepped over to join him. "What are you doing down here? You were dead to the world when I left the cottage."

"I'm definitely awake now." Gary forced a wry grin past his exasperation. "I wanted to talk to you, and Fergus said you might be down here." At the mention of her friend's name, Morgelyn's shoulders sagged, the smile dropped off her face, and she turned to watch gulls circling over the barnacle-crusted boulder that stuck up from the water a few yards out.

"Did he also mention that he told me I should stay down here and hide from my own neighbors?" Up close, Gary could see that she was tired, deep lines etched around her eyes and mouth. "He has gone beyond reason in his cautions and warnings. I am not a child."

"Whoa." Gary held up a hand. "I didn't come here to argue with you, okay?" 

"No, of course not." Clutching her plaid shawl around her shoulders, Morgelyn turned back to him, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Gary; he started pestering again the moment I stepped out to the garden this morning, and after last night it was too much."

"Yeah, I understand that." Gary had spotted a flattish rock a little way down the beach, with what looked like a basket on top. Assuming it was Morgelyn's, he started walking that way, and she fell into step beside him. "How's your arm?"

"Healing. It was never more than a scratch." Her voice was distracted, and they walked quietly for a few moments, the rolling of the ocean filling the silence. Grateful for the wind in his face and the way it cleared out the cobwebs from his brain, Gary focused on sidestepping erratic waves until they got to the rock, inky basalt cropping up from the sand like a turtle's back. Morgelyn turned away from the breeze, leaning back against the rock, and one eyebrow came up as the object Gary was carrying finally registered.

"I need to talk to you about this." Gary held the globe upright on his outstretched palm, and the bright sunlight shone through the crystal and set diamonds dancing inside it. But there were no colors, no vibrations. There was no warmth. "I was looking at it earlier, and it did it again."

"Did what?" The way her gaze darted from Gary to the glass and back told him that Morgelyn had a pretty good idea what he meant.

"It changed." He held the glass out to her, hoping she'd take it, hoping she'd explain away what he feared it might mean. "There were colors inside it, and it got kinda warm. It was weird."

Morgelyn searched his eyes for a moment, then took it carefully into her hands. She didn't say anything as she examined it, and Gary shifted uncomfortably from one wet foot to the other.

"I'm not making it up."

"Of course not." Morgelyn twisted the globe one way and another in the light. "Someone else must have it," she said, and Gary caught the note of trepidation in her voice, the slight crease in her brow. "In another time. Your time, most likely." Her glance was quick and skittish. "When I called for you, this last time, the time it worked, it happened as you just described, right before you appeared in the river."

Gary nodded. Somehow, it seemed perfectly logical to think that the thing could be in two places at once, since it wasn't really 'at once'; technically, it was in two different times. "It looked like that on the pier, right before I fell in the lake." He, too, turned and leaned back against the boulder, accepting its shelter. His legs stung as the salt water dried on his skin. "It was Marissa. I was thinking about her when this all started happening. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear, just for a second, I heard her voice. Then I ran into a tree and dropped it and it all stopped." Deep in contemplation of the metal strands around the base of the globe, Morgelyn didn't respond. Gary took a deep breath and asked, "Do you think she has it?"

"I think that is entirely possible." She didn't look up, wouldn't meet his eyes, though her voice was clear and steady enough. "It would seem, Gary Hobson, that you still have a way to get home."

His heartbeat sped up at that, for two different reasons. "If I hadn't dropped it, do you think I would have gone back?"

The way she winced at that was the best clue so far to Morgelyn's state of mind. "Perhaps," she whispered, barely audible under the wind, gulls, and waves.

"Then I'm glad I did run into that tree," Gary said, and he was only partly lying. He did want to help, and despite Fergus's doubts, there had to be a way he could. Morgelyn's startled eyes met his. "I'll see this through. I won't just leave you in the middle of whatever's going on."

"That's a good way to put it. Whatever." Morgelyn sighed, tilting her head back against the boulder. When she opened her eyes, she turned and smiled at Gary, a weary smile, but a real one. "Thank you. I do not know if I could do the same in your place."

"You could," Gary told her simply. "Look, uh, Morgelyn--" Now it was his turn to avoid an unnerving stare; he looked down at his hands, rubbing one palm with the opposite thumb. "You don't think she's in trouble, do you? I mean, what if someone there needs me and I can't help?"

Morgelyn touched his arm. "I've no doubt your friends miss you. But I also have thought a great deal about what you said yesterday, about this magic being not entirely in our hands. I believe you were correct." She indicated the shore, the rocks, the tumbling waves, with a sweep of her arm. "If God can make all this, He can certainly take care of us as He sees fit. And I do not believe that God would be so cruel as to keep you from your friend if she were in true danger."

Gary wasn't sure how to respond to that. Connecting God with the paper and everything that went with it had never been comfortable for him. But he latched onto the rest of her meaning, trusted it the way he usually trusted Marissa's advice. 

"Okay. Thanks." He gulped, looking down at his hands. "I'm glad you think that's true. I won't go--you know you, uh--" Morgelyn frowned at him, perplexed, and the words came tumbling out. "You can trust me, you know."

Brown eyes wide, she faced him straight on. The wind pushed her hair back from her face. "Of course I trust you, Gary." 

"Yeah, but I heard what you said to Fergus this morning. About not leaving me alone." And it had stung, more than he liked to admit. 

"You heard that? Oh, dear." She dropped her hands to her sides, even though one still held the crystal ball. "When Fergus starts to argue with me, all good sense goes out the window."

Gary's grin was faint. "Really gets to ya, huh?"

"Like a nettle's sting." Morgelyn shook her head ruefully. 

"That's because he doesn't want to see you get hurt."

"I understand that, but he does not see this situation clearly. He does not know what it is to have been given a trust like this." She brought the globe out, balancing it in her hands so that they both could see it. "I will not fail. I cannot, not like--" Her last words were whispered, and Gary wasn't sure that he'd heard correctly. He followed her gaze as she turned to look out at the sea, at an irregular polygon of white that must have been some configuration of ship's sails. They both watched it glide, smooth as a figure skater from this distance, toward the west. Finally she cleared her throat and snapped her head back, meeting his eyes again. "If what I learned is true, I fear for all of us." 

He spread his hands wide. "What is it? What else do you know?" 

Searching his eyes, she didn't answer at first. The wind gusted, stalling a gull so close to their heads that Gary could have reached up and touched it. "There is more," she said when the bird had beat itself free.

"More? More what?" Gary didn't even try to hide the sinking suspicion in his voice. Of course there was more. Less would have been far too easy.

"More to this." She nodded at the glass. "When Grandmother gave it to me, there was not time for her to tell me everything, but it is not only for bringing you here and getting you home. It may be part of a story, and if so it has a name." She shifted her hands, so that she held the globe cupped gingerly in her palms. Biting her lip, she turned, set it oh-so-carefully on the flat top of the rock, and backed away from it. Two steps, three, four. She clasped her hands behind her back and sighed with a stiffness that Gary didn't understand. 

"Fred?" he joked, trying to break the tension.

"What?"

"Its other name, it, uh, wouldn't be Fred, would it?"

"Of course not." Blinking away a confused look, Morgelyn began to pace in a wide circle, restless as the sea. "I did not fully understand until last night, and I am still not sure I understand it all. I was looking for a cure, and to know the reason you are here, and how to help save the village. I know there has to be a reason for all of it." Morgelyn stopped in front of him and clasped her hands behind her back. 

"You would say that," Gary muttered.

She tilted her head, brow furrowed. "Something Robert said last night gave me an idea."

"He said to beware of fire." The memory drove shivers up Gary's spine. 

Morgelyn turned her face to the sea. "When he said that, he called me Amalia. He thought I was my grandmother, and I think he thought you were her husband. Time confuses him now. He muddles it up, crosses the threads." 

"Yeah, I noticed." Time wasn't the only thing mixed up in that guy's head. 

"If he was right, if Enora told them about dragons and warned them about fire, they would have written something like that down for safekeeping. I knew nothing of the scrying glass until the day my grandmother died, and I know that she would not have left me this without some clue, some help. Last night, when Robert said Enora told them both, I finally realized that perhaps it was not Grandmother who wrote it down. Grandfather's logs have been sitting at the bottom of a chest for years, and in all that has happened in recent years, I had forgotten he recorded more than his sea travels."

Gary nodded. "Fergus said he was a sailor."

"He was a captain." Morgelyn stood up straighter; Gary half-expected her to salute. She lifted the basket from the rock and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, offering it to him. "This was from the time when my mother was born."

The cover was aging, spotted leather. Gary opened it gingerly, telling himself that it was maybe fifty years old, not the six hundred that it seemed to him. The thin vellum pages were the color of weak tea. Each was covered from top to bottom, edge to edge, with tiny writing in an ink that was once black, now turning brown. "What language is this?" he asked, holding it up to his nose and squinting at the lettering. 

Morgelyn chuckled. "It is the reason--one of them--that Grandmother taught me so many. He writes in English as we know it here, as well as the languages he learned from his early days on pirate ships, before he became respectable, and of course his own language from Ire, in Africa." 

"He couldn't just stick with one?"

"Grandmother always said that some tongues had better ways of expressing certain ideas than others."

"Like the Eskimos and all their words for snow," Gary said. Morgelyn squinted at him, but he waved it off. "Not important."

She took the book back from Gary, turning pages delicately. "Where was that entry? Here." Turning the book so that Gary could see it, she traced one line of chicken scratch with a finger. When he shook his head, helpless, she turned it back to herself. "He says that Enora died and left them not only her cottage, but a...a freagracht, a responsibility, or trust. He is not sure if Enora's stories are true, but Amalia is. She believes that in the time of greatest need, an marfiór de dragan--the dragon slayer--will come through the Eye of the Dragon, an inscription will appear, and a treasure will be found." Brow knit, Morgelyn looked up at Gary. "Enora was speaking of you."

"Ooooookay." Gary was still muddled by the combination of family history and crazy legends. He latched on to the easiest question first. "Who was Enora?"

Morgelyn pointed again at the writing, holding down the pages that tried to turn themselves in the stiffening wind. "She lived in the cottage before we did. Like Grandmother, she was a healer. It is more true to say Grandmother became a healer because of her. I never met her, of course; Grandmother was a young woman the first time they came here. The lord of the manor in that day, kin of Lady Nessa's husband, wanted to hire Grandfather to ship his tin, and so they came to Gwenyllan to meet him. They had to walk from the harbor down in Polruan, a port town a few miles away." She nodded past the boulder, indicating the west. "On their way into Gwenyllan, they passed by the cottage, and said hello to the woman who was working in the garden there. Enora took one look at Grandmother and told her that her life lacked roots. It was enough to make Grandmother stop and take notice, and the two of them became friends. The rest is a long story." Morgelyn's smile was sheepish. "Though of course I am making it long enough already."

An old story, one she knew well, one that was important. Gary flashed a grin. "I'll let you know if you lose me. So this Enora, she gave your grandparents that thing?" He pointed over his shoulder, where the scrying glass rested on the rock.

Nodding, Morgelyn said, "Grandmother told me Enora knew the ways of the people who were here before the Christians. They understood the seasons, the earth, and the ocean. The things that never change, even though people do. And Grandmother understood those things, too, though she had learned them in a different land, in a different way. But even though she was different, people accepted her because she had Enora's blessing." She paused, wrapped one hand over her arm where it had been cut the day before, and drew it in close. "I think it was easier, then, to live with differences. There were no droughts, no famine, no pestilence. The people felt blessed, and did not turn on one another."

Gary leaned back against the rock, the wind blowing salt water mist and the occasional grain of sand into his face. "But they don't feel blessed now."

"And that is why they need the treasure Grandfather writes about. So they can feel blessed, so they can be blessed, so that we can feel like-- _be_ \--a real village, together again, and face down the dragon." Gary opened his mouth to ask what all that meant, but Morgelyn continued, gesturing at the crystal ball. "Grandmother gave this to me before she died. She said she had failed, but she could not have--" She swallowed, pulling into herself, against the pain of the past, Gary thought, but he didn't know what to say. "By the time she gave it to me, she was feverish, near delirium. She did not tell me it was the Dragon's Eye, but Grandfather did, last night. Now I just have to find the right story."

Dizzy from the rush of information, of stories and family history and way too much for a regular guy from Chicago to understand, Gary fumbled for the right question. "Morgelyn--what stories? What treasure? What dragon--and this is its eye?"

"I know it makes little sense to you, and there is still much to explain; I am still learning myself." Morgelyn sighed. "Can you trust me? Long enough to stay while I work out what it all is?"

He thought about the ball, tugging him back to his own present. He wanted to ask how long it would take to work all this out. But he knew there would be no answer, so he simply nodded.

"There is one clue we might find right now." These words came out more slowly, tentatively. "The inscription. If Grandfather was right, if what I am reading into his words is correct, then it should be under the base of the scrying glass. It would have appeared when you did." She stepped closer to the boulder, and Gary turned; both stared at the globe, but neither one reached for it. Morgelyn's voice dropped to a whisper. "I did not know to look, but if something was there I would have seen it, over the past years of trying. Of course, if the story is correct, it would not have been visible until now. Until you."

Rubbing his still-tender ribs, Gary wondered if whatever was inscribed on this thing, if it really was there, was worth all the trouble it had caused. He also wondered why his hostess, who seemed as curious as a cat, hadn't checked the object for an inscription as soon as she'd read her Grandfather's words. "Why didn't you look last night?"

"I have been gathering my courage. I am half afraid of what it would mean. It would mean that what is coming is worse, worse than the illness that struck before, worse than losing half the village, worse than losing Grandmother. And certainly, I think, it would mean something worse than what Fergus fears. I cannot help but think that it would mean the end of the world, at least for us."

"The end of the world?" Gary was now thoroughly chilled from the wind and his wet legs, but that wasn't why he was fighting off the shivers. "Even with a magical crystal ball, I'm not sure I can stop that."


	10. Chapter 10

_Cast your eyes on the ocean  
Cast your soul to the sea  
When the dark night seems endless  
Please remember me_  
~ Loreena McKennitt

It was a long time before Morgelyn answered Gary, and when she did, she was staring at the crystal ball. "What do any of us know of magic, now?" She twisted her fingers together. "What have I set free?"

He chewed on his lip, considering. There was no explanation he could possibly give, and Morgelyn was so scattered that he wasn't sure he'd get a straight answer about inscriptions, dragons and treasure no matter how many times he asked. He wasn't even sure he wanted one. On the other hand, he had seen the ball change, and he was living through what it could do. It seemed to him, standing in Cornwall, Thirteen Fifty-Something, talking with someone who spoke a language he shouldn't have been able to understand, that the thing to do with magic was to go along with it, trust it and see where it led, end of the world or not. It wasn't a philosophy he'd always followed willingly, but when he did, it seemed to work. Covering the top of the ball with his hand, he lifted it, turning the underside so Morgelyn could see it. 

She closed her eyes, and the gulls fell silent around them.

"If it's there, it's there," he said quietly. "Not looking isn't going to change that." 

Another moment of silence. Morgelyn opened her eyes, and they grew round. "Oh..."

"It's there?"

She nodded. He swallowed and tried to sound more calm than the eerie, crawling sensation at the back of his neck would allow. "What does it say?"

Taking the ball back, she tilted it so the light fell on the under-base, and peered at the carved glinting letters that Gary could faintly see. He moved around behind her to get a better look, but the writing was even less decipherable than the scrawl in the log book. Morgelyn's hands shook as she angled and turned the base, following the twisting path of the words. She read them as if they were a poem, or, he thought as goose bumps chased up and down his arms, like a spell.

"Aon de misneach, aon de creideamh,  
Aon d'amharc glan;  
Fite fuaite in am an ghátair  
Beidh siad an mallacht dragan."

Gary blinked at Morgelyn. "That was not English, not even your version of it."

She shook her head solemnly. "'Tis a good thing that I know some of the old tongue. There were days Grandmother wouldn't let me speak anything but--"

"Morgelyn!" Gary rubbed the back of his head in frustration, then held out a hand, waiting for some kind of answer. "What does it mean?"

"Oh. Of course." She thought for a minute, then translated.

"One of courage, one of faith,  
one of clearest sight.  
Intertwined in time of need  
Shall break the dragon's curse."

"People?" Gary asked. "Is that talking about people?"

"I believe so. And then there is the name carved--" She traced some of the letters with a finger. "Efflam." Morgelyn brought one hand up to her mouth. Gary hadn't thought it possible for her brown eyes to grow any larger, any rounder, but now they looked like marbles. "Efflam is the name of the river, our river."

"The one that coughed me over the waterfall?" Gary asked. "Great, because more spooky coincidences are exactly what I need right now."

Dismissing his grumbling with a twist of her lips, Morgelyn turned the glass over in her hands, staring into the crystal as if she truly could read the future in the sphere. "It really is the Dragon's Eye. And you really are--you are the Dragon Slayer, and I--oh, blessed saints."

Her hands shook with more violence, and Gary reached over and rescued the scrying glass, the Dragon's Eye, whatever the hell it was, before it could fall onto the sand. He set it in the basket, then turned back to find Morgelyn staring out over the ocean, one hand covering her mouth again, the other arm wrapped under her ribs.

"And you what?" He put one hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. "I thought you were pretty sure about that already. What is it now?" Gary hadn't meant the "now" to sound as sharp and impatient as it did; he was simply tired of being unable to follow the path of all this, and, most of all, of being unable to help. At last, after he counted three long horizontal rolls of waves spreading and collapsing out beyond the breakers, after several gulping breaths, Morgelyn's hand dropped away from her mouth and her shoulder relaxed under his hand. He decided to ask again, more civilly this time, "And you?"

"The freagracht, the trust that Enora passed on to my grandparents. It truly is mine now, I must care for all of them, even if they believe I am what Mark claimed. That is what Grandmother was trying to tell me when she died. I should have known..." Lost in the past and a tangle of promises and stories, she trailed off.

Gary cleared his throat, trying to bring her back. "Is this a bad thing?"

"It is if I cannot do it." 

He had to duck his head a bit to look into her eyes. In the past few days he'd seen Morgelyn in a lot of moods, but this one was the strangest--a mixture of excitement, hope, and fear--no, more than fear. Terror.

"Why wouldn't you be able to do this?" Whatever this is, he added silently, then shook his own confusion away. "Trust me, I know what it's like to have a heavy-duty responsibility, but it sounds like you come from a long line of very responsible people."

"No."

"But your grandparents--"

Morgelyn sighed, rubbing her upper arms under the shawl. Her eyes were still unfocused, distant as the story she was telling. "They left Africa for reasons they would never discuss with me. It was a shadow they both ignored and pushed into the woods. I never knew if it was because of something that was done to them, or because of something they did. And then there was my mother, who had a responsibility entrusted to her, and did not fulfill it. What if I turn out the same?"

The weight in her voice, the sadness that mixed with all the other emotions in her eyes, the bits and pieces that he knew of her life so far--he could guess what she meant. But he asked anyway. "What was your mother's responsibility?"

"It was me," she said flatly. "She had me to care for, and she would not--or maybe she could not stay for me." She met his eyes only briefly, then stared out at the sea again. 

I'm sure she wanted to, he started to say, but he didn't know for sure, so he kept quiet. He gave her shoulder another squeeze, then dropped his hand.

"In my seventh summer, my grandfather and my father were both lost when their ship sank in a storm. It was just off the coast of Plymouth, east of here, and some of the sailors made it to land. When they brought the news to us, I thought I had lost everyone." In a gesture that Gary already recognized, she reached for the pin that held her cloak closed, but she wasn't wearing her cloak, and her fingers traced air, then fell away. "I had never seen Grandmother so grim and silent, but Mother screamed and cried for two days straight, and then she, too, stopped speaking. I was young and confused, but I knew enough to understand that two of the people I loved most in the world would not come again. I needed my mother, but she was lost in her own grief." 

Turning to the cliffs, Morgelyn pointed at the boulder which Gary had discovered two nights ago. "She spent months sitting up on that rock, watching for a ship that would never return. She had loved the sea, and traveled with my grandfather, and then with Father. She met him on one of Grandfather's voyages. Grandmother may have found her roots, but Mother never did. Grandmother always said she was more kelp than tree. But now Mother cursed the ocean in every language she knew."

"That must have been hard, if you were so young." Once again, he felt helpless, bereft even of words in the face of unimaginable tragedy.

Nodding, she turned away from the cliffs. "I used to follow her to that rock and plead with her to speak to me, but she was so silent and still. In my child's mind, I thought she was trying to become part of the stone itself. Finally, one day when I was begging her to come home, she spoke to me. She said she could not face a shipwrecked life without my father, without hope. She kissed me on the forehead, sent me back to the cottage, and never came home." Squeezing her eyes shut, Morgelyn pulled her shawl so tight around herself that Gary could see the plaid pattern warp with the strain. "Grandmother found her body here on the beach the next morning."

He looked up to the height again. No wonder she'd been worried about him that first night. "I'm sorry."

With a quick sniff, she shook her head, opened her eyes, and the tension in her shoulders eased. "It was long ago. She was younger than I am now. In a way I understand it, but I still have trouble wondering why she could not stay for her own child, and I wonder if I will do the same. This responsibility is for far more than a single child." Her voice cracked as she asked, "What if I fail them?"

"You won't. I know what kind of person you can be."

"Gary, just because your friend back home--"

"No, you," he insisted, pointing at her with two fingers. "I saw what you did yesterday and last night. know."

"None of us knows ourselves, let alone another, well enough to say with any certainty what we will do in times of trouble and tragedy. Believe me, I have seen enough of both to know that much."

"And I've seen enough of you to know that you're strong enough to do whatever it is you're supposed to do." He moved to stand in front of her, facing her squarely. "You've already got me here, and you didn't know if you could do that, did you? You're not walking away. I'll bet Fergus can't even drag you away."

That earned him the ghost of a smile. "Very well, Dragon Slayer. What do you suggest we do first?"

"I was thinking dry clothes," Gary said, with a rueful look at the soaked hems of his pants. 

"A good thought." Morgelyn snuck one more look up at the cliff, but squared her shoulders and nodded. "You cannot dance at the festival in wet trousers." She went back to the boulder and deposited the Dragon's Eye in her basket. 

"Dance?" Gary shook his head as he picked up his boots, then took the basket from Morgelyn. Together, they picked their way across the beach, back toward the stone stairway. "Please tell me I don't have to save the world by dancing, because if that's the case, the world is definitely in trouble."  


* * *

  
_It's all right, it's okay, if I freeze I can't decay  
You touch, and I freeze, there is ice  
Where my heart should be  
I'm a snow man, cold is all I understand  
If you can't hurt me, no one can_  
~ Nerissa & David Nields

Chuck woke to the sound of the bedsprings beneath him creaking and the unfamiliar sensation of wan, half-hearted sunlight on his face. 

Well, it was unfamiliar these days. It had been familiar, once upon a time. 

He knew right away where he was. There was no moment of disorientation, no wondering what he was doing here. Maybe it was because he was still wearing the same khakis and Oxford shirt he'd had on for--God, how many hours had it been?--at least two days, since before Crumb had called him with the news. He'd brought the t-shirt and shorts he usually slept in, but hadn't thought to change into them last night. This morning. Whenever. 

The pale fall light was filtered through cloudy skies, he saw as he dared to open his eyes, just halfway. Through cream-colored lace curtains--Marissa could be such a girl sometimes--Chuck could see enough of the Chicago sky to know that they were probably in for a day of low, slate-grey dreariness, interrupted only by occasional bouts of drizzle. That would be fine. It suited his mood. Funny how he could remember something as dumb as the weather, and come up with a pinpoint forecast from a small, blurry square of sky, when he'd spent the night before using the stupid television to block out his own fruitless attempts to remember what Gary's voice sounded like. 

He rolled onto his back, punching a pillow, but he couldn't get comfortable on the narrow twin bed. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea, rushing out to Chicago like this. Sure, he'd promised Gary he'd cover his back, that he'd return if there was trouble. But trouble had come and gone without him, and now what was the point? Now he was just stuck here, dreading the morbid, inevitable finale. 

Tom Petty had been right. The waiting really was the hardest part. Waiting for Gary. One way or another.

No. Don't go there. 

Blinking blearily, he opened his eyes wider and focused on his watch, propped up on the night stand. Shit, it was after ten. Not that he had any big plans, any meetings or people to see or a bar to run or--

Chuck sat up quickly, hoping to dislodge those thoughts before they got the better of him. Rubbing his face, he decided a shower and shave would be in order. He could think that far ahead, but refused to think any farther. 

Twenty minutes and probably the entire contents of Marissa's water heater later, he was toweling off, digging one-handed through the small bag that held his toiletries for the razor he knew he'd packed, somewhere, when the whole thing slid off the vanity and hit the floor. The rattle and thump echoed in the silence, and then, for the first time, he noticed that silence, pervasive and still. It had been there since he'd got up, now that he thought about it. He would have expected Spike, at least, to come and see what he was up to. Opening the door just a crack, letting some of the steam escape into the hallway while he spent a minute listening, Chuck realized that it wasn't just his imagination. The place was eerily quiet. 

Well, it wasn't that big a deal. Marissa must have gone somewhere--probably McGinty's. He'd finish getting dressed and then figure it out. 

As it turned out, Marissa had made it easy for him. When he went downstairs, he found a note, a printout from her computer--the regular printer, not the Braille one--propped up by a coffee cup on the kitchen table. It didn't say much, just that she'd gone to the library to look something up, didn't know when she'd be back, and that he should make himself at home. 

"The library?" Chuck muttered, shaking his head. What could possibly be so important in a bunch of old books? Heck, most of them she couldn't even read, could she? He was lucky she hadn't tried to drag him along to help. Of course, that might have had something to do with the way he'd acted yesterday, then earlier this morning. He'd seen it on her face--she'd pretty much given up on him. 

Well, if it meant he wasn't going to be nagged and harassed, badgered into accepting something completely ludicrous, he was all for it.

A curtain stirred in a faint, chilly draft, and Chuck reached across the sink to close the window. It had only been open a couple of inches, just enough to let some air in, but somebody should remind Marissa that it wasn't a good idea to leave a first-floor window open in a city like Chicago. It was trusting and naive and just plain stupid. Especially now, now that Gary wasn't around to stop bad things.

Breakfast. He needed breakfast.

He was searching the cabinets for coffee and something to eat, something other than oatmeal or granola, when the phone rang. He hurried out to the foyer and picked it up just before the answering machine could click to life. 

"Marissa?"

Oh, good one, Chuck, he thought when there was silence on the other end of the line. "I mean, this is Marissa Clark's residence."

"I know who lives there, Fishman." Crumb's dry, impatient tone implied that he wasn't thrilled to be talking to Chuck.

"Geez, Crumb, good morning to you, too." A soft, insistent beep caught Chuck's attention; he glanced down at the answering machine and saw a light blinking. He pressed it, and a computerized voice told him that there were twelve new messages. Twelve? "Must have slept right through all the fun," he murmured before remembering that he wasn't exactly alone.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing, I--uh--is there any news?"

"No." 

Chuck let out a breath, shakier than he'd expected. 

"No," Crumb repeated, but this time his voice had softened. "Nothin' new. How was your night?"

"Interrupted," Chuck muttered.

"Huh? What's going on over there, Fishman? I've called twice this morning and I didn't get an answer."

"Nothing, it's fine. I just overslept and didn't hear the phone, I guess." 

"Where's Marissa?" 

Chuck told him. 

"The library?"

"Hey, I don't know what it's all about either." The thought occurred to Chuck that, had he not been so closed off and unwilling to listen, if not believe, he might know more. But did he want to, really? "There was just a note on the kitchen table when I got up."

"Which library? How long ago did she leave?"

Chuck sighed. The only thing missing from this interrogation was J. T. Marley. "I don't know. I got up maybe half an hour ago, and I'm pretty sure she was gone by then. She just said the library, not which one. Said Patrick was taking her." 

"Quinn? Oh, that's just great." Crumb muttered something under his breath about an overgrown leprechaun.

"You know," Chuck said after a pointed pause, "she's already got a watch dog."

"Not funny, Fishman." 

Resisting the urge to respond, "No, sir," Chuck shrugged instead, as though Crumb could see his attempt at bravado. "I just meant--"

"I know what you meant. Look, at some point today, she's gotta talk to the police. They need her to come downtown and give a formal statement."

Chuck couldn't keep his snort quiet. "About what, crystal balls? That oughta be a good one."

"What, you think she's gonna go blabbing about Hobson's heebie-jeebie circus tent act to the cops? Sheesh, Fishman, you oughta know better than that."

"Yes, si--yeah," Chuck admitted. He did know better than that. He wished, again, that Marissa had kept him in the dark too. This stuff was damn confusing, and he was getting a headache just thinking about it. 

"Okay, well, you see her, tell her to call me, okay?"

"Yeah."

"What are you--"

"Talk to you later, Crumb. Bye." Chuck hung up the phone before Crumb could ask him what he planned to do with his day. Beyond getting out from under the weight of silence that pressed down upon Marissa's home, he honestly didn't know.

He grabbed his keys and his new suede jacket from the coat tree in the entryway. Couldn't throw a fastball in this town without hitting a Starbucks, and coffee was as good a place to start as any. He could relax, have a cinnamon roll, and figure out what to do next. 

As long as he didn't have to look at a newspaper, he'd be fine.  


* * *

  
_Time present and time past  
Are both perhaps contained in time future,  
And time future contained in time past._  
~ T. S. Eliot

"Make haste! The fair has already begun."

"You said that you did not want to go."

"I said that neither of you should go. I have a living to make."

Gary sighed at the bickering voices on the other side of the curtain. The two of them had been at it since they'd all shared a late breakfast. Now, though he felt awkward in the little bedroom, he was thankful for the sheltering curtain. Picking aimlessly at a loose thread on his tunic, he tried to decide which was worse, refereeing those two, or his outfit. It had to be the outfit. He looked like a costuming experiment gone horribly awry. 

He was wearing bits and pieces salvaged from Morgelyn's trunks and Fergus's pack. They'd done their best to find medieval stuff he could wear comfortably, but as far as he was concerned, the only clothes he'd be at home in were his own Levis and plaid shirt. At least he'd talked them out of the black and white tights, one leg of each. There was no way he'd wear those. None whatsoever. 

"Go on ahead, then, and spare us your impatience," Morgelyn told Fergus. "We can find you later. You worried about Gary standing out, and I want to make sure he is properly dressed."

"Very well. Close your eyes, woman," Fergus advised, and threw back the curtain with a flourish. "Voila!" He presented Gary with a sweep of his arm, like Vanna White with a new puzzle. "He looks just like a villager, as long as the village is in a land of giants. Ah, well, I suppose he will do." 

"Of course he will," snapped Morgelyn, who hadn't closed her eyes at all. She stood near the table, tucking a cloth over the top of her basket.

"Ho, ho, ho," Gary growled, and clomped out into the room. No one got the joke, of course; not even Cat was there to send him a derisive sniff. 

Morgelyn pursed her lips and swatted at Fergus as she pushed past him so that she could primp at Gary, which made him feel like a first-class idiot. As if she were dressing a store mannequin, or a doll, Morgelyn tugged at the dark blue woolen tunic, trimmed with gold embroidery, that Gary wore belted over a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of tight brown woolen pants. Renaissance Faire Ken, he thought. Ren Ken. This had to be the final indignity of this whole trip.

"'Tis a bit short." Morgelyn reached up to brush nonexistent dirt from Gary's shoulders. "Hopefully no one will notice."

"Short?" Gary gaped down at the tunic. "The thing hangs almost to my knees!"

"True, but if you slouch a little, no one will notice." Fergus demonstrated, hunching his shoulders and bending his knees. 

"I'm not going to walk around like a hunchback all day."

"Never mind that. Boots." Morgelyn held out a hand, into which Fergus flopped a pair of--well, hell, they looked like the hip waders Gary's dad used for trout fishing. 

"I never thought I would find the feet to fit these," Fergus said, shaking his head in amusement as Gary scowled at him. The boots were a little short, but the leather stretched to accommodate his feet, and they only reached his knees, not his hips. Morgelyn explained how to criss-cross the ties of sturdy cloth around his calves, from ankles to just under the knee. Gary just hoped he wouldn't have to take them off and retie the damn things at any point during the festivities. 

With a satisfied nod, Morgelyn stepped back to survey him. "And all we need now is the hood." 

"Hood? Now, now wait a minute, I'm not cold or anything--"

But Fergus muffled his protest by standing on tiptoe and shoving a circlet of wool over Gary's head. It was the same shade of gold as the embroidery on his tunic, with blue stitching around the edges. A sort of mini-cape, it hung just over his shoulders and around the front and back in a loose circle, with the hood--which Fergus insisted on pulling up over his head--covering all but his face and chin. 

"I am not," Gary declared, glaring at Fergus as he yanked the hood back and off his head by its stupid blue tassel, "wearing this on my head. I'd look like--like--I don't even know what I'd look like."

"Let it hang down the back then." Fergus tried to arrange the hood, but Gary elbowed him away. "We'll tell them it's all the rage in Paris. Who will know the difference here?"

"You look positively dashing," Morgelyn said, arms akimbo, and the fact that some of her weariness and fear seemed to have evaporated amid preparations for the trip to town was almost consolation for the way Gary was dressed.

Almost.

"We shall have to be careful that the fairy queen does not steal you away, like Tam Lin," she told him, eyes twinkling. 

"Tam Lin?" Though he had no idea what she was talking about, Gary had another one of those lurching moments of one time overlapping the other. She reminded him of Marissa teasing him out on the pier, about being a knight in shining armor. That tin can would have been better than this. 

"'Tis another story. May we go now?" Fergus demanded with a toddler's impatience. "I would like to arrive in Gwenyllan before the good people of the village have spent all their coin on other merchants' wares and some other entertainer has sung all my songs."

"There will be plenty left for you. You can hardly expect me to arrive at a festival in my beach combing dress." Morgelyn disappeared behind the curtain while Fergus rolled his eyes and plopped onto the bench next to Gary. 

"Are all women so exasperating in your time?"

Gary shrugged. He picked up the Dragon's Eye from the table and examined the writing under its base.

Fergus raised his voice, aiming his words at the curtain. "Is this woman so exasperating in your time?"

Flashing Fergus what he hoped was a derisive glare, Gary went back to tracing the words with one finger. He couldn't read them, of course, except for the one that was close enough to ordinary English to be recognizable: dragan". Then "Efflam," the name of the river. Finally, a bit of empty space at the end of one metal strand, before the twisted circle of words started up again. Gary turned the Dragon's Eye around in his hands, an idea forming, gaining strength with each twist.

"You got something sharp?" he asked Fergus.

"Let me see." The peddler dug into the pack at his feet, and came up with a small vial. "Cloves! Sharp, spicy, and good for toothaches, as well."

"No, like a knife or something. A small one." Gary spread his thumb and first finger to indicate the size he had in mind.

Eyebrows knitting together, Fergus reached back into the pack and pulled out a jewel-handled knife that fit into his palm. "What do you want with it?"

Gary took it without answering. He put the point of the knife to the blank spot of silver on the inside of the base. And thought. Chewed his lip for a moment. Looked up to see Fergus standing over him, eyes wide, shaking his head. 

"Morgelyn?" Gary called.

"Mmumph?" 

"This inscription here. You think it's around in my time? Could someone there--I mean then--see it?" He ran his thumb along the metal, noting the tiny scratches that seemed so important. He couldn't remember having seen them back in Chicago, but it seemed now like such a long time ago that he couldn't be sure. But if Marissa had it, maybe she would notice. "Or feel it?"

The curtain swished open. Hands on hips, Morgelyn frowned at the spectacle of Gary about to mar the precious globe. The gold net that bundled her braids up off her neck, the deep, dark-red shade of her dress, and the way its skirt swept the floor, slightly longer behind than in front, all added to an air of regal poise that was more than a little intimidating. 

"I swear, I did not know why he wanted the knife!" Fergus declared, backing as far away from Gary as he could. "I thought he wanted to clean his fingernails."

Gary ignored him. He and Morgelyn stared steadily at each other for a moment; then her shoulders relaxed as understanding dawned in her eyes. 

"Do you think it would work?" Gary asked.

Morgelyn glanced down at the globe, her expression doubtful. The word "no" was on the tip of her tongue; Gary could almost see it. But he needed to do this. It was the only way he could think of to send some kind of signal, some kind of promise, to anyone back home who might be waiting for him.

"I don't want to mess this up, but I thought--there's not much room, just something to let them know."

Deliberately pacing the distance to the table, her swishing skirt the only sound in the room, Morgelyn sat down on the bench next to him. She took the glass for a moment, examined the base, and then touched a finger to the same space Gary had spotted. 

"Morgelyn," Fergus warned, approaching the pair, staring down at them with trepidation, "Do you think it is safe to meddle with this?"

"It has already survived a waterfall, and hundreds of years." She nodded to Gary. 

He took back the Dragon's Eye, held it in his hands for another moment. His thoughts were so full of home--Chicago, McGinty's, loft, friends, even the much-maligned newspaper--that he expected it to start changing again, but it didn't. It struck him that this was like playing cosmic phone tag with Marissa or whoever was on the other end of the line. If so, maybe he could leave a message on this answering machine. There wasn't room for much, and he wasn't great with a knife. But what he had in mind didn't take much room or talent.

Hovering over Gary's shoulder, Fergus sucked in a breath when the knife point touched silver. Nothing happened, and Gary pulled the point across the metal, three times in the same pattern, each time applying a little more pressure. It was deeper than the older carving, deep as his fear that he'd never get back home. 

G.H.

He sighed when it was done, and Morgelyn squeezed his arm. 

"Well," said Fergus, "it neither erupted nor exploded. I take it that is a good sign?"

"It means Gary is part of its history now, as well." Morgelyn cocked her head, and her forehead creased into a frown. 

"Yeah, let's just hope I don't stay," Gary mumbled, but broke off when Morgelyn lifted up his arm a little and pulled back his sleeve, revealing his watch. He'd worn it all this time, concealed under the long sleeves of the various get-ups which had been inflicted on him. Not that the time of day mattered here, but he'd been extremely reluctant to take it off. The sleeves on this new shirt were a little shorter, apparently.

"What is this?"

"It's a watch. It tells the time." 

"It is very odd." Morgelyn traced a finger over the dial, frown deepening. "Another wonder from the future?" 

"Well, yeah." Gary yanked his arm back and was going to cover the watch with his sleeve, but both his friends were shaking their heads. 

"You cannot wear this into the village," Fergus said.

"Why not? I did it yesterday, twice."

"And what would have happened, had anyone out there seen it?" His voice rising, Fergus waved an arm toward the window. "There would have been more than a knife-scratch, I can promise you that."

Gary looked to Morgelyn to defend him, but the worried look hadn't left her face. "Fergus is right. It is a marvel, but you cannot risk having someone see it. Who knows what they would think?"

"It's none of their business!" He didn't know how to explain to them that he felt naked without the watch, that he slept with it on most of the time, that to take it off here and now would be like leaving his last shred of connection with home. Bad enough he'd been walking around for two days without a newspaper in his back pocket.

"Were you listening to anything I said yesterday?" Fergus exploded, throwing up his arms. "They will make it their business. They will seize any excuse to drum up trouble and manufacture accusations. Your very existence, if they knew who you really were, would be enough to get us all hanged in the village center, and that is if they were merciful." He bent down until his nose was less than a centimeter away from Gary's. "Morgelyn does not need this."

Nothing like a little guilt trip to start the afternoon off right. Gary set his jaw and held Fergus's gaze steadily, even though it wasn't really the peddler he was angry with.

"Fergus," Morgelyn began, "perhaps--"

"No, he's right." Gary said reluctantly, and pulled the watch from his wrist. He got up and walked over to the shelf where his clothes had been stored. "I don't suppose," he began, tucking the watch into the pocket of his jeans, "there's somewhere in your basket we could tuck that?" He pointed to the Dragon's Eye, which was now the only link to home he might be permitted.

"It would be better if you left it here," Morgelyn said, but her eyes were sympathetic. She, at least, understood what all this meant to Gary.

"But what if we need it or something?"

"What if they find it or something?" Fergus asked in a mocking tone.

Gary clenched his jaw and was about to shoot back a retort, but he remembered the angry, triumphant voices he'd heard from the tavern the night before, and how very little it had taken to provoke them. Still, leaving everything of himself here was harder than he liked to admit.

"It is for your safety," Morgelyn said. "T'were best if all those things were out of sight." She opened a trunk in the corner. 

"Yeah, okay." Gary picked up the pile of clothes, and placed that, and the Dragon's Eye, in the trunk.

"Expecting unwelcome visitors?" Fergus asked Morgelyn when she pulled a skeleton key off the mantel, locked the trunk, and tucked the key into the little embroidered pouch that hung off her belt. 

"One never knows." Retrieving her cloak from its peg by the door, she added, "I never expect you, and yet you continue to turn up without warning."

"Wounded again." Fergus slapped a hand to his heart, then shouldered his pack. "Gary? Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he said, shaking his head ruefully at the outfit.

"You look very handsome," said Morgelyn, "but the effect would be greater if you could smile. This is supposed to be a merry occasion--the longest light of the year, the turning of the sun, and the flowering of the forest."

"And the feast of St. John," Fergus added.

"That too," Morgelyn said with a smile.

Clapping a hand to Gary's shoulder, Fergus pushed him out the open door. "We will not be able to keep the ladies away from you, especially once the dancing begins."

"I told you before, I don't know how to dance."

Picking up a basket from the table, Morgelyn followed them, pulling the door closed behind her. "Just follow the group and keep your feet moving."

"And your mouth closed," Fergus finished. He strode down the path ahead of them, whistling a jaunty tune.

"You look very fine," Morgelyn assured Gary again. "And you will fit in. Trouble will have to search high and low just to find you."

Gary shook his head, then reached back to scratch the back of his neck, already itchy from the woolen hood. "Why do I get the feeling it already has?"  


* * *

  
_Why, this is very Midsummer madness._  
~ Twelfth Night , III.iv

Gwenyllan was positively bustling by the time the trio arrived. Obviously this festival had nothing on, say, Taste of Chicago or the Blues Festival, but Gary hadn't known, from his two previous experiences, that there were so many people--and so many colors--in the little village. The town center was circled by stalls draped in bright scarves, and as they wandered through the crowd of people, horses, dogs, and even a few pigs and chickens, Gary noted the variety of goods for sale: candles, bread, cloth, shoes, wheels of cheese, leather, knives and other utensils and tools he couldn't identify, ale, pottery, ribbons, and fish. Everything, he supposed, that the medieval home could need. Bright flowers were everywhere, draped over the bridge and the market stalls, crowning heads, twined around basket handles, and covering the well. 

The townspeople were decked out in their finest clothes, which ranged from shirts with only a few patches to dresses and doublets of violently bright silk, some of them in color combinations that made his eyes ache. Orange with green seemed to be a favorite. Maybe they'd all been wrong to worry about Gary standing out. Next to some of these folks, his get-up was positively subdued. Except for being a head taller than almost everyone there, he didn't think he looked all that different.

But he felt different. Crowded in by unfamiliar scents and voices, by elbows that brushed his and dogs that ran right over his feet, Gary started to feel as if the whole of the village was pressing in on him. He was about to ask Morgelyn if they could pull off to the side somewhere when a strident voice, worse than rusty nails on a chalkboard, screeched in his ear. 

"Mussels! Fresh mussels and lobster!" 

He jumped back, stumbling into Fergus and starting a chain reaction that nearly toppled everyone around them. Untangling himself from the fray, he turned toward the source and found himself staring down into a pockmarked face, framing bright blue eyes and a partially toothless grin. "Lobster, love?" the old woman asked, holding a dripping, snapping crustacean in Gary's face. 

"Uh, no thanks," he stammered, and let Morgelyn, who was trying desperately not to laugh, lead him away from the fishmonger and her wooden barrels. 

"Maybe you should have bought one for a pet," Morgelyn told him, a wicked grin still plastered on her face.

He snorted. "I don't think Cat would like the competition." 

They kept moving through the crowd, taking a wider, less crowded path, until Fergus stopped near a spreading oak. "This will do nicely," he said. The tree stood behind the circle of stalls, tucked between two larger houses. On the ankle-deep grass Fergus laid out a stained, worn cloth, and began removing everything from his pack for display. Before he'd finished, prospective customers had come to look--or, it seemed in the case of one freckle-faced young woman, to flirt.

Gary and Morgelyn backed away from the crowds, into the double shade of the tree and the neighboring house. On tiptoe, Morgelyn scanned the stalls and faces in the market, while Gary, finally free of the press of the crowd and random lobsters, tried to relax. From what he'd been told over breakfast, he knew the buying and selling would go on until late afternoon, when a bell-ringer would close the stalls and other festivities would begin. Since he wasn't exactly up for shopping, he wasn't sure what he should do in the meantime. "We just gonna hang out here, or what?" he asked Morgelyn.

She opened her mouth, then looked beyond Gary and snapped it closed. He swiveled his head, and saw Fergus watching them with one eyebrow raised, talking out the side of his mouth to a man in a velvet tunic who was asking him about one of the belts he was selling. The freckled girl was still there; she'd made herself comfortable, sitting on Fergus's tarp and watching the exchange with interest. When she saw Gary watching, she twittered her fingers at him and giggled so hard her tight curls bobbed. He managed a weak smile and looked away.

"I saw a ribbon back there I want." Morgelyn pointed toward a hub of activity around two brightly-decorated stalls. She didn't meet his eyes, and the twinkle she'd had just a few moments ago was gone. "I will be back soon." With that, she slipped back into the crowd; in just a few seconds, she was out of sight. 

Shaking his head, Gary ambled over to where Fergus was trading the belt for quite a few silver coins. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable, but the man who'd bought the belt either didn't realize or didn't care that he'd paid too much. Scratching the itch that was going to be permanent if he had to wear this damn thing around his neck much longer, Gary wondered exactly what it was Morgelyn was up to. From the serious look on her face, he was pretty sure that she'd gone looking for more than a hair ribbon.

Fergus nudged him with an elbow, then dumped the silver coins in Gary's hand. "Go buy us some lunch." He chewed on his lip as he surveyed the stalls, then pointed to one near the tavern. "That one. But watch first, and do not pay more than anyone else. Some of these people will take one look at that face of yours and double their prices." Freckles giggled again, twirling a leaf between her fingers, and Fergus spared her a brief grin. 

"What's wrong with my face?" Gary demanded.

"Nothing," Fergus told him matter-of-factly. "That is the problem."

"I thought you didn't want me to talk to anyone." He pointed at the mad giggler. "Why don't you send her?"

"Cecily has very graciously offered to help me here." Fergus's grin broadened, and he seemed to have completely forgotten his objections to bringing Gary in the first place. "I do not know where Morgelyn's off to, and I cannot watch over you all day." Strange grunting erupted behind them, and the girl squealed, leaping to her feet. "Shoo!" Fergus spun around, waving away a grunting, stubborn pig. "Get away--no, come back! Those mushrooms came from Avignon!"

Bouncing the coins in his hand, Gary watched Fergus run down the pig, which amused the villagers around them as well, but probably wasn't the kind of entertainment Fergus had planned on providing, then walked off into the crowd, not without some sense of trepidation. The voices around him blurred into a brogue-laden symphony that he wasn't even going to try to understand. Still, this wasn't too hard to figure out, this operation--it was a street market, and prices were set by bargaining. Gary strolled around the broad, crowded ring between the stalls and the well, stopping often to let others get by. Some of those people smiled and nodded at him as he passed; one or two shot mistrustful, narrowed gazes, but most were too preoccupied with their shopping to worry about strangers, and he guessed he wasn't the only one around on a day like this. Happy greetings flew back and forth, and children and farm animals ran rampant through the crowd. 

Once or twice he had the strangest sensation that he was being watched, like when Cat stalked him at home. But Cat wasn't here, and wouldn't hide if it wanted his attention. Though Gary spun around every time he felt the creeping sensation on the back of his neck, he never did catch anyone in the act. 

He stopped at the booth Fergus had indicated. A young woman was selling meat pies and roasted apples under an awning of rough cloth, while a boy behind her cooked them over an open fire. Waiting and listening carefully until they'd taken a coin for feeding a flock of six raggedy children, Gary put on a smile and asked for three of each. But when the young woman asked for two of his silver coins in return, he balked. "You just charged those kids half that for twice as much food!"

"Ah, but these are my special pies, sir," the redhead cooed. "A secret recipe, just for you." When Gary shook his head and was about to walk off, she grabbed his sleeve, pulled him in closer and whispered, "But I'd be willing to let you have them for one coin--and a few kisses."

"I--uh--I--" Gary stammered. Was he being propositioned? Right here, in the middle of--he gulped. 

"Do not be shy." She put a finger on his lips, blue eyes twinkling. "We can always meet up in the woods if you'd rather do it there." The boy at the fire snorted.

Despite the hand clutching his arm, Gary took a step back. "I don't--that is, I shouldn't--"

"Do not fool with this one, Nia. He is Morgelyn's friend." The gravely voice rose all the hackles on the back of Gary's neck; a hack of spit just missed his boots. The young woman's sky-blue eyes narrowed; she dropped his arm and took a step back. Gary wasn't sure if it was him or Mark Styles she was backing away from. Styles stood just behind Gary with the man who'd pulled him away the day before, and both glared at him with flint in their eyes. 

"One coin will be more than enough, sir," the girl said, her gaze darting from Gary's hardening jaw to Styles's looming bulk. 

"That's all right," Gary said, staring not at her, but at Styles and his friend. "I've lost my appetite."

"There is something very strange about you," the redheaded man said, advancing a half-step toward Gary. 

Surveying the crowd behind the two men, Gary felt more abandoned than ever; he couldn't even see Fergus from here. Beyond their little scene, the merriment continued, but passers-by stared. 

"No doubt you would seem strange, Simon Elders, if you had lost your memory in a shipwreck." The girl's voice was sharp and defiant, and Gary turned to her in surprise.

"He is probably a devil's helper, here to bring us all to ruin," growled Mark.

The girl laughed, dismissing the accusation with a wave of her hand. "Next you will tell me that Piran here has turned into a pixie. Get on with you."

Styles opened his mouth to say something, but started coughing, nearly doubling over. His friend thumped his back. "You need ale," he muttered, and once Styles had stopped coughing the pair stalked off toward the tavern, where tables were set outside and bustling with drinkers. 

The problem was more than a dry throat; Gary could tell from the sound of the cough. As he watched them go, he rubbed the coins against each other, so hard that the friction warmed his hand. Should he tell Styles to get help? Oh, yeah, that would go over really well, wouldn't it? Who knew what that would lead to?

Well, certainly not Gary, because he didn't have the paper. Damn it, where was Cat? And where had Morgelyn got to? If she ran into those two--

"They are awful." 

Gary turned back to the girl. All trace of flirtation was gone from her face; she stared after the men with eyes almost as hard as their own, and her fist clenched at her side. "Stirring up trouble on a day like today, over Morgelyn, of all people." She shook her head and repeated, "They are awful."

A wave of relief nearly knocked Gary over. She was serious. Maybe not everyone believed the man and his wild accusations.

"Yeah, they are." He smiled at her, for real this time. "I'm Gary."

"Nia." She blushed up to the roots of her fiery hair, and her hand uncurled, extended in apology. "I am sorry. Had I known you were Morgelyn's friend, I would not have acted as I did." 

"It's not like that." Gary hoped he wasn't blushing as well. "We're just friends."

Nia's crooked grin did nothing to hide her prematurely yellowing, chipped teeth, but Gary thought it was a great smile anyway. "You should not give a whit about their silly accusations. I like Morgelyn. She saved my brother's leg last year," she said, gesturing at the boy stoking the fire. "Piran fell on a scythe, and the cut was so deep we thought it would never heal, but Morgelyn knew just what to do." 

Gary nodded. "That sounds like her. Listen, what you said to those guys--" He jabbed a thumb in the direction Styles and Elders had gone. "How did you know about me?"

"The shipwreck?" Nia's eyes lit with excitement, and Piran left off tending the fire, not even pretending to work anymore. "Stories spread faster than sickness here, especially on festival days. I must say, no one told me just how handsome our forgetful stranger was." 

"Is it true that you were in a shipwreck? It must have been exciting," the boy said.

"I don't remember." Gary tried to remember the story Fergus had conjured the day before. "It probably was," he added in a weak attempt to make up for the disappointment etched on Piran's broad face. "I'm just glad I found some people to help me out."

"Not all of us are so narrow minded that we would refuse welcome to a stranger. Gwenyllan is still a free town, after all." Nia's voice had grown louder, and hurried footsteps behind him made Gary's stomach squirm. A flock of elderly ladies, whispering behind their hands, walked away from Nia's stall. "Never mind them," she said, wrapping the pies and apples in a coarse cloth, and tying it with a loose knot. "Oh, goodness, no." She waved away the coins that Gary held out. "I canna take them now."

"You've earned them," Gary told her seriously.

Lifting an eyebrow, Nia took one coin from his palm, then pressed the bag into it. "What about your kisses?"

"I--uh--you know, I don't remember if I--if I'm--uh--" Gary gave up with a sigh. He just wasn't any good at this.

Clucking her tongue, Nia shook her head ruefully. "Ah, well, a dance tonight, perhaps?"

Why, Gary wondered, was everyone suddenly obsessed with dancing? "I don't know how," he admitted, grateful that in this, at least, he could be completely honest.

Nia beamed. "I am an excellent teacher! All the lads say so." Piran snorted again and went back to his fire. 

"I guess we'll see what happens tonight. Thank you." Gary lifted the bag in salute, and left Nia to her next group of customers.

He brought the food back to Fergus, keeping an eye out for Morgelyn as he wove his way through the crowd. But there was no sign of her, and by the time he reached the tree, he was full-out worried. Fergus was engaged in negotiations with the freckle-faced girl, but it wasn't over the price of his wares. More the kind of thing that Nia had originally had in mind. She had one hand on his shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Fergus's grin was lascivious as a wolf's.

Clearing his throat to get their attention, Gary dropped the pies and apples next to Fergus. "Lunch," he muttered. "Help yourself." 

Freckles dove for the bag, and Gary turned his back to the pair, scanning the crowd for a red dress. Ribbon, hell. He'd walked by that booth twice and never seen a sign of Morgelyn. "Where'd she go?" he asked Fergus. 

"Mmrrow." Fergus's mouth was already stuffed with pie; Freckles bent over him and wiped his chin with the corner of her shawl. 

"Thanks, you're very helpful." Gary's attention was caught by a large figure in brown robes. Before he could talk himself out of it, he called, "Father--Father Ezekiel!" and waved the priest over. Behind him, Fergus sputtered, but Gary ignored him. Maybe he could make an ally. The way Mark Styles and his buddy were acting, he was going to need one. The robes turned his way, and Gary saw the older man wasn't alone. His companion, similarly attired, was tall, his blond hair scraggly, and--he swallowed what little was left of the suddenly-scarce air.

Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe his overtaxed brain was seeing what wasn't there. 

But that little-boy eagerness was unmistakable. Fergus got to his feet, looked at the pair, looked at Gary, and used his index finger to lift Gary's chin and close his gaping mouth. Freckles just giggled again.

"MacEwan," Ezekiel acknowledged the peddler with a curt nod, then turned to Gary. "And--"

"G-Gary." He barely managed to get his own name out.

"Hobson. I remember." The dark, narrowed eyes were impossible to read. The priest indicated his companion. "This is my nephew, Declan." 

Goofy and lanky, half-kid, half-golden retriever, the young man greeted Gary with an hopeful, friendly smile. "Good day, sir! You have chosen the best of all possible days to visit our town."

"I--uh--hello," Gary mumbled, fighting to hide his shock. His gaze shifting from Ezekiel to Declan and back, searching for the sense in all this. Crumb, related to Patrick? And he hadn't throttled him yet? He searched for more to say, but nothing came to his overloaded mind. 

"He must have lost his manners along with his memory," the priest huffed.

"He is a bit--" Fergus touched his temple with a finger, whistled two notes. "The shipwreck, you know."

Father Ezekiel snorted, and Gary jumped at the familiar sound. "Well, then these two have something in common." Ezekiel wagged a finger between Gary and Declan. "I have always said my nephew is touched as well. But," he added, his expression softening, "as it turns out, he is doing well at the monastery in St. Goron. They are saying that one day he will be chief scribe."

Watching as Declan beamed at the praise, bouncing on the balls of his feet, Gary was now sure that the world was off-kilter. 

"That is no doubt due, uncle, to my experiences before I took my vows."

Ezekiel nodded. Baffled, Gary turned to Fergus, who explained, "Before the pestilence came, he was the town crier."

"Ever since he left to follow his calling," Ezekiel said, "there has been no one to take his place. Still, when he can visit us, he brings us what news he can." 

"And how have you been, my good man?" Declan asked Fergus. "Still barding all over the world?"

Gary ignored Fergus's enthusiastic response, while he tried to adjust to this new revelation. "The town crier," he muttered, putting two and two together and not liking the particular four he came up with. He started at a hideously off-key jangling behind them; it perfectly matched his nerves. Freckles had picked up Fergus's harp and was plucking the strings with random vigor. The distraction did nothing to loosen the intensity of the moment for Gary, but still, the way he saw it, he had a choice. He could do the idiot gaping act for the fourth time in a few days, or he could find out what he needed to know. 

Trying to banish the idiot face, he pulled himself together enough to ask Declan, "Where do you get it?"

Stopping in mid-sentence, Declan turned from Fergus to Gary. His broad smile was tinged with befuddled amusement. "What?" 

"The news, the information, the stuff you--you cry--where do you get it?"

The other three men stared at Gary as if he were a lunatic. Even Freckles stopped her aimless strumming on the harp. Gary grabbed Declan by the robe and leaned in until their noses were just a millimeter apart. "Where does it come from?"

Eyes widening with a nervous chuckle, Declan said, "The same place as I do: the monastery, up beyond the moor. We chronicle what we can glean from the travelers who come to us."

"How often?" Gary demanded. Fergus cleared his throat, and Gary looked down at his hands, released the young man. The young monk. Patrick was a monk. This could not possibly get any stranger.

Declan shrugged, bemused. "When God sees fit to send it to us."

Oh, that was a good one. Someone, somewhere, was looking down on Gary and having the laugh of his--her--its life. He just knew it. "What news is there now?" he demanded. And was this kid going to show up at Morgelyn's doorstep one morning with Cat?

"None of interest, sir. I must say, 'tis very kind of you to take an interest. Uncle says I speak too often, but no one has ever asked so many questions, except for that time that the Abbot was questioning me about an unfortunate incident with a goat and a barrel of indigo dye..." The young man went on, but Gary wasn't listening. He turned to Fergus, grinning. 

"There, ya see? Nothing to worry about." 

Fergus raised an eyebrow, and Gary realized that Father Ezekiel was still staring at him with something more than casual interest. 

"Why have you accosted my kin?" His tone wasn't exactly dangerous, more like interested, and Gary took that as a good sign.

"You don't want to know," he assured him, still grinning, lightheaded with relief. Freckles finally managed something like a tune, one note at a time, on the harp. It sounded a little like "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star".

The old man's forehead creased itself into furrows and valleys as he swept his piercing glare from Gary to Fergus and back. "Where is Morgelyn?" he finally asked. 

Gary's relief vanished as quickly as it'd come. He snapped his head around, scanning the crowd, but still no red dress. He scratched the back of his neck through the hood. His skin felt all crawly, and the sense of being watched had returned. 

"She went to buy some ribbon," Fergus answered the priest.

"Too long ago," Gary muttered. "You know what, I'm just gonna go see if I can find her." It was as good an excuse as any to escape the suspicious look fixed on Father Ezekiel's face. He started off in one direction, but the priest grabbed his arm and nodded in the opposite, his sharp gaze directed like a laser past the bakery, toward the ramshackle cottage tucked behind it. 

"You might as well try the most likely place first," he said, still scowling. 

"She didn't--" Gary turned to Fergus. His good mood was disappearing as rapidly as it had come. "She wouldn't--"

"Of course she would," Fergus said with a disgusted shake of his head. 

"What's the trouble?" Declan asked brightly.

"Mark's in the tavern again, at least," Gary mumbled. He started off for the house anyway. 

"Foolish," spat Father Ezekiel. Gary stopped, swallowed a retort, and then resumed his path through the market, never having turned around.

He muttered to himself, too far under his breath for any but the closest passers-by to hear. "Buy a few things at the market, tell stories, dance. Yeah, right. Merriment for all, my great-aunt Fanny." He strode up the path to the Styles home. "Hut, not a home, guy can't even take care of his own family," he growled, stomping past the tree that Fergus had been knocked into the day before. The sprigs of St. John's flower at the door were wilting, the yellow drained to a dirty cream color. Gary raised one hand to knock on the door frame, but stopped when he heard a soft voice inside.

He'd heard Marissa sing a couple times. This was like her voice, and yet it wasn't. Or maybe it was just the song, or the fact that it sounded, to him anyway, like nonsense--kind of like the words Morgelyn had read off the Dragon's Eye that morning. The tune was soft and bittersweet. He pulled the curtain back from the entryway. His eyes took a few minutes to adjust to the gloom, but he managed to ascertain that neither Anna nor Mark was inside. Morgelyn knelt in a corner, singing the wistful lullaby, and in her arms she cradled the limp, rag-wrapped form of Tolan Styles.

Gary stepped inside and let the dirty curtain fall back over the opening, darkening the cottage even more. "Morgelyn?" 

The song broke off. Light from the smoke hole in the ceiling lit her face, and the boy's, and Gary froze.

Tolan's head lolled to the side, his eyes closed. And Morgelyn--Gary's heart dropped to his stomach.

Her face was streaked with tears.


	11. Chapter 11

_Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,  
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.  
Clutching a little case,  
He walks out briskly to infect a city  
Whose terrible future may have just arrived._  
~ W. H. Auden

"Is he--did he--" Frozen just inside the doorway, Gary couldn't even get the question out. He'd been so sure that Morgelyn's cure would work, but what if Anna hadn't given the child the medicine, or the father had found it? His heart thudded in his chest as he crossed the tiny room and knelt next to the pair. "Morgelyn?"

"Shhh." She swiped her hand across her cheeks. "Tolan will be well now. His fever is broken, the cough has lessened, and he is sleeping peacefully. He will be well," she repeated softly, stroking the boy's hair.

Letting out a long, slow breath, Gary rocked back. "Thank God." He didn't want to think about what it would have done to Morgelyn, what it would have done to them both, if the child had died. 

"Yes." The boy stirred, and Morgelyn hummed a few more bars, rocking him in her arms. "He just needs to rest until he regains his strength." 

Gary watched for a few more seconds, then said quietly, "You should have told us where you were going."

"You would have tried to stop me. Not that you would have succeeded." She flashed him a tense, apologetic smile. "I had to know how he fared."

Though he nodded, Gary couldn't keep his glance from darting to the doorway, and his whisper wasn't just for the sake of Tolan's rest. "Now that you know, do you think we can get out of here? Even if he's okay, I don't think his father will be thrilled if he comes back here and finds you." 

"There is naught to worry about now, Gary." Morgelyn lay Tolan down on the pile of straw and smoothed his forehead as he curled in on himself. "Anna will not lose another child."

"Anna's not the one I'm worried about here," Gary muttered. He spotted a rough woolen blanket bunched up at the end of the straw, and pulled it up over Tolan. "Father Ezekiel was asking about you just now. He guessed you'd be here, and he might not be the only one. I don't think you should stay." He stood, brushing dirty bits of straw and rushes off his pants. With another nervous look over his shoulder, he held out his hand.

"Stop fretting. You sound like Fergus, and you will ruin this lovely day." Nevertheless, Morgelyn let him pull her to her feet. 

"I don't want to ruin anything," Gary said, still whispering, "but I think we may have more trouble." 

Finally, Morgelyn tore her gaze away from the sleeping boy and cocked her head at Gary, and he started to tell her what had happened at Nia's stall. Morgelyn's shoulders hitched up defensively when he mentioned Mark Styles and Simon Elder, so he only told her about Styles's cough, leaving out what they'd said about her. That really _would_ ruin the day.

"If Mark is sick, it is unfortunate, but not a trouble," Morgelyn said when he'd finished. Her shoulders relaxed, and Gary would have sworn she'd been holding her breath. "We know now what can cure it. I can make more of the draughts I sent with you yesterday, and when he sees that his son is well, Mark will understand that I meant no harm. He will take the cure and recover." She sounded sure of the outcome, though Gary still felt doubtful about Styles's ability to change his mind, let alone his heart. With a satisfied nod, she crossed to the door and held the curtain open. They both blinked at the strong light that flooded the tiny hut. "But you are right; we should go. I want to find Robert and make sure he is better, too."

"What if Mark won't take the stuff?" Gary cast one more worried look at Tolan, still sleeping soundly, before he joined Morgelyn.

"Then Anna can put it in his soup," she said with a chuckle. "There is no need to worry, Gary. I know these people. This is my home. They will not hold to a grudge once they see it was ill-founded." 

They stepped out into the bright sunshine, and with that, Morgelyn's confidence, and his newfound information about local news operations, Gary found that he was inclined to relief, if not optimism. His explanation of what he'd learned from Declan, and the young man's resemblance to McGinty's newest bartender, had Morgelyn laughing as they picked their way around the periphery of the fair, headed for Fergus's spot. 

"You think this is funny?" Gary grumbled in mock indignation. "I'm starting to get whiplash every time I turn around. Next thing I know my third grade teacher's gonna show up, or my cousin Linda." 

"Perhaps this is just God's way of making you feel at home." Morgelyn told him. "Is there anyone else we can conjure up for you? Brothers or sisters?"

"I don't have any of those, but I used to have this dog when I was a kid--"

They both saw it at the same time and stopped few yards from the cluster of tables outside the tavern. Gary cursed himself for not paying more attention to where they'd been headed. A staggering Mark Styles was leaning on his friend Simon, and despite his obviously weakened and thoroughly drunk condition, he was bellowing at his wife. 

"You left him alone? Woman, you have become the village idiot!"

Cowering before the men, her bruise bright purple in the sunlight , Anna clutched a basket tightly to her chest. "I--I did not, I--"

So much for the age of chivalry. Wanting, needing to do something to stop the hideous scene, Gary took a tentative step forward, but Morgelyn's skirt brushed his leg. "No," he hissed, snatching at her arm, but she was out of his reach, striding determinedly toward her friend. Hefollowed, searching the crowd around them, hoping for Fergus's quick words and bravado, or for Father Ezekiel's stern sanity. Neither man was in sight. Around them a few heads turned, but mostly the other villagers were bent on their own errands, their own fun. 

"Anna!" Morgelyn's tone was forced but cheerful, and when he saw that she'd pasted on a smile, not nearly as genuine as before, Gary tried to do the same. But he kept watching the two glowering men for any signs of movement.

"Anna, all is well," Morgelyn said, and when she met the other woman's wary eyes, her smile warmed up again. "Tolan is past the worst of his illness. He is sleeping soundly now, and the cough is gone."

Anna's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. Gary saw hope as she took in Morgelyn's words, fear as she glanced back at her husband, and then a spark of courage, mixed with relief. She threw her arms around Morgelyn. "Thank you."

Morgelyn hugged her back, and asked, in a pointed tone that was meant for everyone within earshot, "And you, Anna? How do you fare?"

Shaking her head, Anna would have stepped away, but Morgelyn kept a protective hand on her friend's arm. Mark shrugged Simon off and tottered toward the women. Gary matched him, positioning himself at Morgelyn's elbow. Around them, the day held its breath; the festival sounds fell away.

"Go back to the house, wife," Mark growled. He put a hand on her shoulder, and would have said or maybe done more, but a fit of coughing overtook him, and he bent nearly double. Anna turned to him, her expression alarmed. 

"Mark," Morgelyn began, holding out a hand in his direction, "you are ill." Her tone was measured, her face a mask, hiding everything that had happened in the past day or so. Gary was glad he'd at least been able to prepare her for this. "There is more of the brew I sent for Tolan at your cottage. I think you should take it and rest. Go back with Anna. I can send you more if you need it." 

"Anna is going back alone to tend to my son. Now!" Styles croaked. Jumping like a frightened rabbit, Anna spun around and scurried back toward the cottage. Gary could feel his fist clenching again. No matter what the time period, he couldn't stand bullying. He just wished he knew how to stop it without getting Morgelyn into more trouble.

"Please, Mark, I only want to help you." Morgelyn's back was stiff; no one here was about to relax. "I know that if you will only try the cure you will be well."

"Never," Mark said between coughs.

"You ought to listen to the lady," said Gary, and earned himself a venomous glare. "She knows what she's talking about."

"And who are you to tell me what to do, stranger?" Straightening up as his coughing fit passed, Mark gave Gary the same withering, dismissive glance he'd landed on his wife. "You don't even belong here."

"But you know me, Mark," Morgelyn said.

Simon stepped past his wheezing friend and stared down at Morgelyn with pure malice in his pale eyes. "You want him to drink your foul, poisoned brew?"

"It is neither. It is there to help him, just as it has helped his child." Impatience leaked through Morgelyn's reasoned words. Gary grabbed hold of her sleeve and pulled her back a step. He was watching both men for sudden moves, for more knives. 

Mark smirked and pointed at Morgelyn's arm. "I have marked you as a witch," he said, his voice ragged and hoarse. "Why should you help me?"

Footsteps shuffled in the dirt behind them, but Gary didn't dare take his eyes off Mark and Morgelyn to see who it was. He tightened his grip on Morgelyn's sleeve, torn between the pull to run from danger and his baser instinct--to just lay the guy flat out on the ground with one good punch, to beat some sense and manners into him. 

"Because Anna is my friend, and you are her husband, and Tolan's father."

"Bah!" Mark spat into the dust at their feet, then turned toward his friend. "I am no weakling boy. Simon, come. I think ale a better cure than this woman's venom." 

"He will kill himself with drink," Morgelyn whispered under her breath. She made a move to follow, but Gary held fast to her arm.

"He won't listen to you." 

"Anna needs him. Mark!" Morgelyn shouted at his back.

"Come on, let's go." Gary tried to tug her around in the other direction, but it was like trying to move a boulder. She shook his hand off. 

"You will die if you do not do as I say!"

Everyone around them stopped and stared. Mark and Simon both turned back, and Morgelyn covered her mouth with her hand.

Too late, Gary thought. Way too late.

"What did you say?" The low voice came from behind Gary. He spun around and found himself face to face with Father Ezekiel. The priest's eyes were boring a hole into Morgelyn.

"F-Father--I was trying to tell Mark--" Impatience and command had vanished from her voice, and Gary felt fear clutching at his back. How could they not have understood what she meant?

Maybe because they didn't want to.

Styles stormed back, jabbing an accusing finger in Morgelyn's direction. "You heard her, Father! She has cursed me. You are my witness."

"No, it wasn't like that," Gary broke in. He took a half step that put himself in Ezekiel's line of sight, trying to draw some of the accusation in the man's unnerving gaze away from Morgelyn. "She was just telling him to take the medicine she made. He's sick, that's why she said that." Father Ezekiel, of all people, had to believe Gary. At the very least, he had to believe Morgelyn, who stood biting her lower lip so hard it was turning white, pleading for trust with the look she fixed on the priest. Crumb would have trusted them, Gary thought, scrabbling for any scrap of hope. Crumb wouldn't have been able to stand it if Marissa turned a look on him like that one, afraid he wouldn't believe her, afraid he'd betray her. Zeke Crumb, ex-Chicago cop and all-around tough guy, would have caved like a hollow snow bank at one blink of a look like that.

But this guy wasn't Crumb. And though he was measuring Morgelyn with an expression as cold as snow, he showed no sign of caving.

"Tolan is well now, Father," Morgelyn said quietly, carefully. "He is going to live." She and Gary both jumped at the words that exploded from the other side.

"She said she wants me to die!" Mark's angry defiance threatened to sever the fragile connection between Morgelyn and Ezekiel. 

"That is not what she said!" Gary retorted.

Simon had sauntered back to the little group, and he turned his glare full on Gary. "Once again, Morgelyn, this stranger interferes on your behalf. Did you conjure him up along with your false cures and curses?"

"Of course she didn't," Gary said hurriedly, trying to cover Morgelyn's faint gasp. He turned to Father Ezekiel. "All she said was--"

"I heard what was said." The priest's expression was stern and unwavering, his glance barely flickering to Styles. "As for you, Mark, I suggest you stop worrying about witchcraft and take to your bed. Anna has had enough grief to last many years, and you should not give her cause for more."

"Anna is a weak, useless woman." Styles hocked, as if he was going to spit again, but Gary moved, almost imperceptibly, insinuating himself between the sick man and his friend. Mark's eyes shifted around the little group, and he shrugged, without an iota less bravado. "Come, Simon. The air around here is beginning to stink."

Gary drew in a breath; for once in his life he had a good comeback ready. But then he looked at Morgelyn's worried face, and the curious way Father Ezekiel continued to stare at her, and decided it would be better not to aggravate the situation. He waited until the men were out of earshot before he muttered, "It wouldn't stink so bad if he kept his mouth shut."

"I have advised caution to you both already," Father Ezekiel said sternly. He nodded at Gary. "I am glad to see that one of you, at least, was listening."

"Father--" Morgelyn held out her hand still pleading, but he simply turned and walked away, shaking his head. 

Gary felt a breeze shifting the hair on the back of his head--and something more. There it was again, that sensation of being observed and studied, like a bug in an ant farm. He turned toward the milling crowd around the tavern, and spotted bright purple in the midst of the villagers' garb. While the festival colors were almost garish, desperate attempts to liven up the place, this was a regal, rich, deep jewel of a violet. 

Lady Nessa. Had she been the one watching him earlier? But she smiled when their eyes met, warm and inviting, and Gary found himself smiling back in spite of himself. Maybe it was the fact that all the other smiles around him had disappeared. Nessa turned, said something to one of the younger women who flocked around her, and they walked off. If someone really had been watching him, it must not have been her.

Morgelyn was still staring after the priest, and hadn't noticed Nessa at all. "'Twill be all right," she murmured, then blinked, and though the smile she forced at Gary was wry, her eyes were as determined as ever. "Anna knows, and she will make sure he gets the herbs."

They were still too close to the tavern, Gary thought; with a light touch on her elbow, he steered Morgelyn in the direction of Fergus's tree. "Let me ask you something," he said, throwing a furtive glance back at the tavern. "Why do any of you care about that guy?" 

Morgelyn pulled back and looked up at him in alarm. "How can you even ask that?" 

He spread his arms wide. She had to know what he meant. "He's obnoxious, he's a bully, he treats his wife like dirt, and he's not any nicer to you. So why are you trying so hard to help him, when he doesn't want to be helped?" He was still angry enough at Styles to quash the tiny, guilty voice in his head that said his question sounded like something Chuck would have asked.

Morgelyn lifted her hand in a wide sweep that took in the village, the fair, the people milling everywhere. "He is one of us, and we can hardly afford to lose another person to illness, after so many deaths. But even if the pestilence had not come, he is a human being, and he should not have to suffer. Surely you understand that."

"I understand the principle," Gary backtracked as they came in view of Fergus's tree. A crowd had gathered, and he seemed to be doing a brisk business. "But this guy Mark is--you saw Anna's face, you know what he did to her, and yesterday, when he--look, I just--I don't want him to hurt anyone again, especially not you."

Morgelyn stopped, sighed, and crossed her arms in front of her. "I know, Gary. But you must understand; if Anna is left a widow, there will be no one to care for her. Her family died in the pestilence. She cannot work the farm all by herself, and with a child to care for? I know not how they would live." Rubbing her arm, she let out another heavy breath. "Mark and Simon were not always like this. I do not know where these insane ideas are coming from. But she needs him."

Gary looked away for a second, the skin on his arms crawling at the thought of the compromises Anna Styles must have had to make just to survive. "Well, then, I guess we're going to have to change his ideas." They resumed their path through the colors and flowers, the people and animals, the combination of all the village had to offer.

Morgelyn inclined her head toward the little group under the tree. "Please do not speak of this to Fergus. He will only chide and worry at me, and I have had enough of that to last a very long time."

"My lips are sealed," Gary promised. 

Morgelyn tilted her head with a confused frown for just a second, then her features cleared in understanding. "If that is true," she asked with a faint smile, "then speaking must be quite difficult for you. Thank you for coming to my defense in spite of your tribulation."

"It's the least I could do," he said, hoping he'd be able to do better than "least" the next time around.  


* * *

  
_You can cough out the city, you can change your old clothes  
You can soften your accent so nobody knows  
But whenever I'm honest, something in me  
Still looks for fresh water that feels like the sea _  
~ Carrie Newcomer

A few hours after leaving Marissa's place, Chuck still didn't know what to do with himself. He'd driven all over downtown, trying to find some place that felt comfortable. Wasn't that the point of coming home? But he hadn't come across a single spot that wasn't tainted with painfully sharp memories. The coffee hadn't done anything for his state of mind; even blasting the radio didn't help. Every song that didn't stink matched his own gloomy thoughts far too closely for comfort.

_"Adia, I do believe I failed you,  
Adia, I know I let you down--"_

_"Near, far, whereeevvv--"_

Ugh. 

_"...fight the tears that ain't coming  
Or the moment of truth in your lies  
When everything feels like the movies,  
Yeah you bleed just to--"_

_"I get knocked down, but I get up again!  
No you're never gonna keep me down--" _

_"...that my heart will go--"_

Maybe the oldies station.

_"Help! I need somebody.  
Help! You know I need someone--"_

Or not.

_"Yippee yi yo, yippee yi ye,  
Wanna bump your body--"_

Chuck snorted. Finally one that didn't scrape against his exhausted nerves, but he still didn't want to hear it. Didn't anybody play The Boss anymore? He slammed his palm onto the power button in abject disgust, and watched the landmarks zip past him as he pushed harder on the accelerator. Speed climbing, wind rushing in through the open windows, that part was okay--until he blinked and realized the traffic ahead was stopped for a red light. He nearly put the brake pedal through the floor, and he left half the tread of the tires on the road. The rental squealed to a stop no more than an inch from the bumper of the school bus in front of him.

Sucking in deep, diesel-laden breaths, Chuck tried to ignore the rugrats in the bus and the hideous faces they twisted at him. He pried his fingers off the wheel, looked over at the street signs to try to figure out where he was and why it seemed familiar, and realized, with a start almost as great as that from the near-accident, that this was the spot where Gary, out of nowhere, had sprawled across the hood of his Lexus, and kept him from being broadsided by a ramshackle truck.

No one would ever throw himself at his car to save his life again. Those kids, sticking out tongues and putting fingers in their ears and noses at him, they might have been hurt. He'd been a split second away from ramming their bus, and no one would have been there to stop him.

He had to stop, somewhere, anywhere. Before someone got hurt. 

He gave himself over to autopilot, and, a few minutes later, found a parking place. He ended up in the one spot he'd been avoiding all along: a green wooden bench, facing the lake.

Gary's bench.

That lake. 

Chuck shivered as he lowered himself onto the seat, shoving his hands into the soft suede pockets of his jacket. When he was a little kid, he would hang out at Jackson Park Beach with his cousins, and they'd pretend it was the ocean, but really, Lake Michigan was nothing like the Pacific. He loved California, loved the sunshine and bright blue ocean and the beach babes that went with them. Now that he had those things, now that so much had happened right here, he should, by rights, hate this place. Really hate this lake. It was too cold, too grey.

What the hell had Gary been doing out here, anyway? Chuck had never understood his need to sit and sulk through every ridiculous phase of weather Chicago could whip up. Take today, for example Too many clouds, too low and thick on the horizon, winter's chill invading the crisp end of October. 

But that was Gary. He'd never taken the easy way, even when it came to brooding. Still, even now, Chuck had to admit that he saw some of the appeal. From here, Chicago was only a skyline. Faceless. The lake was its end, a period to the run-on sentences of gnarled traffic, incessant noise, and constant hustle and hassle. It didn't ask for anything; it didn't make demands. Here, he could turn his back on it.

Maybe that had been why Gary came here. He'd lived the past couple of years immersed in the faces, the traffic, the noise, the need. There'd been no end to what Chicago, via the paper, had asked of him. Hell, even when he'd been knocked on his butt, or just plain knocked out, Gary kept trying to save people. And, like those trick birthday candles that re-lit themselves just when they'd been blown out, the paper had kept right on giving Gary people to save. Nothing he'd done had ever been enough. No wonder he'd appreciated the steely water and its undemanding monotony. 

Enough to throw himself into it? No. No, that just wasn't possible. It wasn't Gary, and Chuck was sorry he'd ever intimated as much to Marissa. 

He was sorry about a lot of things.

Sighing into the wind, he forced himself to look to his left, where he could make out activity on the pier. Orange and navy blue figures went back and forth, boats traced zigzags in the water, but from this distance, nothing that was happening up there made much sense. 

None of this made sense. He averted his gaze, afraid that if he looked too long he really would see something he understood or recognized. Couldn't have that, now, could we?, asked an annoying little voice that sounded suspiciously like a cross between his Great-aunt Gracie's and Jiminey Cricket's. Can't stand to face reality, can you?

Hell, he told the voice, he was not the one who needed a reality check. Marissa still believed that cockamamie theory of hers, that Gary was alive somewhere, and if that was realistic, then he was the prince of Brunei. Besides, she was the one who'd decided to shut him out--maybe gently, certainly for kind reasons--but he had seen the look in her eyes early this morning, the way her face closed off when she had decided not to involve him in this any further. It was what he'd dreaded all along: he didn't belong anymore. Even if, by some incredible stretch of the imagination, Gary wasn't gone, Marissa had decided Chuck wasn't going to be any help. Not to her, not to Gary. 

It hurt more than he'd expected it to, more than he wanted to admit. Wasn't he Gary's best friend? 

"Shit," he muttered out loud, startling a squirrel that sat across the path from him. It scurried away, and he stood, kicking gravel across the sidewalk. He turned away from the sight of the pier and started walking south, back toward the city, toward his car. 

Some best friend, said the voice.

"Shut up," Chuck retorted, then realized, when the teenager doing an octopus number on her boyfriend stopped to stare at him as they passed, that talking to himself could get him in trouble. His conscience, if that's what it was, didn't seem to care.

You could have saved him. You could have been here. You could have been helping him all along. 

I help people, too, he retorted--silently this time. He couldn't quite believe that he was having an inner dialog in the middle of roller bladers and bicyclists. I'm making a name for myself, and pretty soon I'll be making quality shows. People need to be entertained. I helped that old lady, last spring without even knowing who she was.

You helped her because you wanted to even out your karma. 

His reasons didn't matter. He'd done a good deed, and she had been grateful; grateful enough to offer him a reward.

What's up with that? the voice nagged. You help one person, one time, and you're set for life--or at least for a wild night in Vegas and six months or so in LA. Gary helped everybody, all the time, it was all he ever did. What did he get out of it? 

"Shit!" There was real venom in Chuck's voice this time, and he didn't care who heard it. He kicked a rock the size of his big toe down the sidewalk, and it landed in the path of a skateboarder, who popped off his wheels and ended up in a heap on the grass. 

Chuck stared at the kid, unable to move. He was a walking time bomb. He was gonna blow. At Gary, at the universe, at Lucius Snow and the entire Sun-Times operation, at that damn Cat, sitting there staring at him like he was supposed to do something.

Shit. Again, shit. That was--it couldn't be. Stock-still in the middle of the path, Chuck couldn't take his eyes off the cat, not even when the skateboarder deliberately knocked against his shoulder and growled, "Thanks for nothing, asshole," as he passed. Sitting primly under a tree just off the path, pinning Chuck with its emerald eyes, Cat waited until the boy was out of hearing before meowing. 

It could have been any cat. It didn't have to be that cat. Chuck squared his shoulders, took two steps past the tree, and was surprised to find the tabby blocking his path.

"How--" He looked back at the tree, but there weren't two cats. Just this one. Just Gary's. No, Snow's.

"Meow."

"No." Hands still shoved in his pockets, he glanced up at the sky, informing it and the cat, "You are not gonna do this to me. You don't have to be Gary's cat at all." He'd never gotten along with the damn thing, so why would it show up now, like some sign from above?

And why the hell was he so prepared to believe that's what it was? 

Maybe because it reached out to scratch his ankle with angry, sharp claws when he tried, once more, to stomp past it. 

Maybe because he'd heard that irritated rowling too many times to ever completely get it out of his head.

Maybe, in the end, because he wanted to.

"All right," he said, gritting his teeth so the passers-by wouldn't see his lips moving. He still had some pride left, after all. "All right, what ?" He was not, no way, gonna get his hopes up. It was too far to fall twice. 

Still, when the cat left the path, Chuck followed, his feet leaden, his legs stiff, because he realized where they were going. Crossing the uneven ground to the water's edge, they halted at the concrete embankment that stood sentinel between the city of Chicago and her lake. Chuck's stomach lurched with a sudden gust of wind. It would be the ultimate irony if he found Gary; the paper's, the cat's--someone's--final act of revenge. 

"No. I don't want to find him, not like this." But it was useless to inform the cat of his wishes. It just sat there, pawing at the sea wall and staring out at the lake. Maybe this was Chuck's answer, his karmic time to reap, every rotten thing he'd ever done in his life come back to get him all at once. A gull squawked right over his head, and that drew his gaze outward, up, and over the water. Chuck shut his eyes for a brief moment, then stepped out onto the embankment, forcing himself to look down. He had to blink several times before he could breathe again. There was no ghostly pale hand floating in the water, no trace of a brown leather jacket or a great big foot in a lace-up boot, no dark hair.

No Gary. 

Chuck's stomach dropped back down to the usual place with a thud. He didn't know whether it was to his credit or not, but he was relieved, relieved beyond words. Hell, he hadn't done anything to deserve that kind of fate.

Cat, however, was not relieved, and more insistent than ever. "Reee-ow!" it howled.

"What?" Chuck held out his hands, no longer caring who saw him. "There's nothing. I don't get it. I'm not going in the lake, if that's what you're thinking. Been there, done that, almost turned into a Chucksicle, and there's no place close that I can go to warm up afterward."

There was no place because there was no Gary because...

"Because why, damn it?" If any creature on earth knew, Chuck supposed it was that cat. It wasn't fair that some demented house pet knew more about his best friend than he did. Implacable, the feline continued to gaze across the lake. "Okay, what is it I'm supposed to see?"

He tried to follow the direction of the cat's stare. A boat on the far horizon fluttered white sails with blue stripes. A gull traced the same path in the sky; the wind was pushing birds and clouds out to sea. Or at least, that's what it looked like; not a lake, but a tame ocean. One ray of sunshine, from the clouds breaking behind him, seemed to be trying to follow them.

And he was thinking like some sappy old poet. Couldn't he have at least an iota of dignity left?

Then, incredibly, as if this whole stupid scenario couldn't get any more bizarre, Cat pawed a couple of times at the concrete, then lifted its paw toward the lake, toward the east.

"Gary's out there? Like I didn't know that already? Look at me, I'm talking to a damn cat again, and you know what? I'm not anymore. Forget this mindfuck. There's nothing I can do." Chuck turned on his heel, ignoring the meowing this time. Screw this. He wasn't going to fall again; wasn't going to get his hopes up, crash, and then have to stitch himself back together. It just wasn't going to happen.

Besides, he thought as he dug the car keys out of his pocket with stiff, uncooperative fingers, pounding out a march on the pavement in his new funeral-black loafers--besides, it might not even be the same cat. He was the one letting his imagination run away with him now. 

He refused to look back, cutting across the lawn to the narrow parking lot, aware only peripherally of the cars circling in wait for an open space. Leaving the heater off despite the cold that had burrowed its way into his marrow, Chuck pulled out of his place and let one of the vultures claim its prize. He didn't look back, not at the waterline, not at the pier, not at the bench, and not at the tiny, orangish dot that was probably sitting a few yards down from it. 

It was just a cat. It wasn't a harbinger of...of anything. It hadn't been pointing, it had just been lifting a paw, cold from the pavement. Maybe it had a rock between its toes. 

That's all it was. 

That's all it could be. 

Damn, he needed a drink.  


* * *

  
_In one bunch together bound  
Flowers for burning here are found,  
Both good and ill;  
Thousandfold let good seed spring,  
Wicked weeds, fast withering._  
~ traditional Cornish rhyme

As it turned out, Morgelyn's worries about Fergus's reaction were ill-founded. He was happy enough to see them, but too preoccupied with his customers, and with the attentions of the freckled girl, Cecily, to notice his friends' unease. 

Morgelyn decided to buy her ribbon after all, and Gary went with her. He told himself it was just because he couldn't sit there watching Fergus make a fool of himself over a woman. Really, it had nothing to do with being overprotective at all.

Going to market with Morgelyn was, he discovered, a lot like grocery shopping with his mom back when he was a kid. "I only need milk and bread," she would say when Gary groaned as they pulled into the Safeway, but she always grabbed a cart, and by the time they'd left, he'd be carrying bags full of things she'd just happened to remember they needed. It wasn't all that different here. By the time they made their way to the stall where the ribbons were being sold, the basket Gary carried was laden with candles, a roll of parchment and a bottle of ink, and, though he couldn't imagine why she'd need more, small jars of herbs and spices. The hair ribbon--dark red, like Morgelyn's dress--paid for, they headed back for Fergus, and a bell began to clang. 

Declan came down the main path, ringing a brass bell high over his head. With good natured grumbling, the sellers began to collect their goods and take down the tents. "We need room for the festivities," Declan told Nia, who was complaining that the sun hadn't even met the tree tops yet. "Stories and dancing and the bonfires are yet to come. Ah, well met, sir!" He nodded at Gary, then swept a bow. "Lady Morgelyn, a pleasure."

"I'm no lady, Declan, and you know it," she said, laughing. Even when faced with the specter of Patrick Quinn in monk's robes, Gary was more relaxed than he had been. The people down here seemed more cheerful and friendly than those up by the tavern. While Declan went on, still ringing his bell with gusto, Gary waved at Nia and Piran.

"Do not forget our dance!" Nia called, and tossed Gary an apple. He waved again, in thanks this time, and turned just in time to catch the bemused frown Morgelyn shot his way.

"Nia?" Morgelyn asked under her breath. "Be careful around her, Gary. That girl has one thing on her mind. She has already snared the hearts--and the lips--of most of the village boys."

"She's not so bad," Gary mumbled through a mouthful of apple flesh. She thought well of Morgelyn, after all.

"You would think so," she muttered dryly. "You thought the same thing about Nessa yesterday."

Gary shrugged. From what he'd seen, no woman had it easy here. A little ambition might not be such a bad thing. Swiping with the back of his hand at the juice dribbling down his chin, Gary hurried after her. They were headed for the edge of town, closest to the bridge, where a large group of children and adults seemed to be gathering. "I just meant--"

Hysterical squealing exploded just behind them; Gary spun around. A crowd of children was chasing through the rapidly-disappearing market stalls, yelling and shouting in some game or another. They looked cleaner than they had the day before, and many of the girls had flowers woven in their hair. One of the littlest girls came shrieking around Gary in a blur of auburn hair and brown dress, then ducked behind Morgelyn, clutching at her skirts. 

"Save me!"

Now that she was relatively still, Gary recognized her as the girl who'd finished the story for him the day before. "Tamsyn, right?" he asked. She hid her face in a fold of red wool.

"The boys are chasing me!" Her voice was muffled, her bare feet stomping in the dust.

"Oh, dear, we can't have that." Morgelyn made a show of pushing Tamsyn behind her and throwing her wide skirts over the child. 

"Tamsyn!" A red-headed boy, the leader of a group of four or five that Gary guessed to be about ten years old, stopped before them. "Where'd she go?"

Gary pointed toward the bridge, and Morgelyn had to cough to hide the twittering behind her skirt. The boys took off in that direction, and Tamsyn poked her head out. 

"You are lucky not to have a big brother," she told Morgelyn. "He was pulling my braids and he wanted to put my dollie on the wish boat!" She held up a tiny bundle of straw, tied off into approximation of head, legs, and arms with rough twine, covered here and there with bits of cloth. "Matilda can't swim," Tamsyn added mournfully.

"Your dollie is safe with us," Morgelyn assured her. She reached for the little girl's free hand. "Come, you want to sail your boat, don't you?" But Tamsyn was staring at Gary, her eyes wide. "This is Gary; you told him the story, remember? He shall keep the boys away from you and Matilda." A shy smile peeked up at Gary as the three started toward the bridge at the edge of town.

"What's going on?" Gary asked.

"We have to make a wish." Determinedly cheerful, Morgelyn swung the little girl's hand in hers. 

"Green is gold, fire is wet!" Tamsyn shouted, skipping between Morgelyn and Gary. 

"Exactly," Morgelyn laughed.

"That clears it up," Gary muttered good-naturedly. 

"There she is!" The boys had spotted Tamsyn, and started charging in their direction. Squealing, she grabbed Gary around the knees, hiding her face. Gary handed the basket to Morgelyn, then reached down and swung Tamsyn up over his head, situating her on his shoulders. Flummoxed, her brother skidded to a stop, while the others kept on going; apparently they had other targets as well. After a first gasp of surprise, Tamsyn chortled down at the boy with floppy red hair and wide brown eyes.

"You canna get me now, James!"

The boy opened his mouth to say something, but then he caught Gary's eye, turned and realized who was standing next to him. Confusion blossomed across his face. 

"Hullo, James," Morgelyn said with a smile. "Looking for something?"

"No, we are done playing with the baby," the boy said. Still looking strangely at Morgelyn, he took two steps back. 

The smile didn't leave her face, but a furrowed line appeared above her eyebrows. "What is wrong?"

"Is it true that Tolan is sick?"

"He was, but he's getting better now."

James looked toward the Styles's cottage, then back at Gary and Morgelyn. "My father said--he said that you--"

Struggling to hold the excited girl steady, Gary swallowed. Not this again. It was going to follow them everywhere, wasn't it? The thing was, this boy didn't seem malicious, not like the adults had been, or those kids fighting back in Chicago. It was more like he was asking for assurance. Morgelyn seemed to sense it, too; her smile softened and she spoke as she might to someone Tamsyn's age.

"I would no more hurt Tolan than I would hurt you or your sister." She bent forward a little, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You know that, don't you James?"

He glanced up at Tamsyn, who was still giggling above Gary's head. Something must have clicked. The boy's shoulders slumped, and a crooked grin broke across his face. "He truly will be well?" Morgelyn nodded. "Father must have been mistaken." James looked awfully relieved about that as he ran off, waving over his shoulder at his sister. "Bye, brat!"

Gary frowned, adding the red hair to what the boy had said. "Is his father--"

"Simon Elders," Morgelyn finished, staring after James. "Making accusations like that to my face is one thing, but poisoning the minds of his own?" Turning back to Gary, she caught sight of Tamsyn and bit her lip. 

"That boy wanted to believe you," Gary told her quietly, pointing with two fingers in the direction James had gone. "He did believe you."

"For how long, I wonder?"

"Mama!" Tamsyn kicked her heels into Gary's ribs. "Mama, look at me!"

A woman broke from the crowd before them, her faded blue skirt swirling around her as she honed in on Tamsyn's call. 

"Up here, Mama!"

Concern melted into amusement as the woman saw Tamsyn, then Morgelyn, and joined them. "Morgelyn, thank goodness." The women shared a friendly hug, while Gary tried to keep the squirming child balanced on his shoulders. "Are you all right? I heard about yesterday. It is dreadful what these men will do when--what some men will do," she amended when she met Gary's eyes. 

"I am quite well," Morgelyn assured her. "Lara Elders, this is Gary Hobson."

Gary, clinging to Tamsyn's legs to keep her from slipping and to protect his tender ribs, nodded in greeting. "Hello."

"Our shipwrecked stranger," Lara said, but her dark eyes twinkled warmly at Gary, and she, of all the people he'd met, didn't say the word "stranger" as if it was something bad. The children might have inherited their red hair from their father, but their happy, round faces came from Lara. She tilted her head up to look at her daughter. "What are you doing up there, little one?" 

"I am a bird, Mama." Tamsyn pulled up Gary's hair, and he winced. "See my tree? I flew up here to get away from James. He chased me."

"More likely you are a chattering squirrel, and in danger of destroying your perch." Lara held out her arms. "I think it is safe to get down now. Do you want to sail your boat?"

"Down, down, I want to get my boat!" Tamsyn squealed. Not wanting to lose an eardrum to her high-pitched cries, Gary complied. He spun her down with a flourish, and after a hug from her mother, she scampered off to the crowd. 

Lara sighed as she watched the girl go. "Such high spirits. I apologize if she imposed upon your kindness."

Gary shook his head. "Nah, she's fine."

"Gary's specialty is helping fair ladies in distress," Morgelyn teased. 

He could feel warmth in his cheeks as Lara looked him over appraisingly. "I really just--right time, right place..." he trailed off weakly.

Lara's expression turned serious as she asked Morgelyn, "Speaking of distress, have you spoken with Anna today?"

Morgelyn flinched, but she didn't bring up the scene that had happened near the tavern. "I checked in on Tolan this afternoon," she said, "and he seems much improved. I am sure he will be playing with James and the others again in a few days. But Mark is ill, and in a foul temper with Anna right now."

"Mark Styles deserves any illness that befalls him," Lara snapped, echoing Gary's own sentiments. "Poor little Ronana was so weakened by his treatment of her, 'tis no wonder she died. Simon may be crude in his words, but he has never raised a hand against me or the children."

At the mention of Ronana Styles, Morgelyn's forehead creased into worried furrows. "Lara, would you be willing to go to Anna? Tolan should be all right, but I do not think Anna should be alone. We will watch over the children."

"The whole village watches over the children," Lara said with a wry smile. "Now that there are so few of us, they seem more precious than when we were children together. Do you remember how it was?" she asked Morgelyn. "We were all friends then, boys and girls alike."

"We were friends for much longer than childhood." Morgelyn's wistful pronouncement made Gary think of Chuck, of home, of what it must be like to stay in one place a whole life long and never expect to leave it. No wonder she wouldn't listen to Fergus about leaving.

"Most of us remain so. I am sure this nonsense will pass, Morgelyn. Do you remember how much fear ran through Gwenyllan when everyone caught fevers last winter? We still live under the shadow of the pestilence."

"Tolan's illness is not the pestilence, and God willing, it will not spread far." Morgelyn handed Lara the red ribbon. "Go, please tend to Anna, and give her this. She has little enough to brighten her life these days. But do not tell her it came from me, or Mark may be even more angry with her."

Lara fingered the bit of silk. "I will not tell her, but she will know. You are a good friend, Morgelyn."

"As are you." Morgelyn embraced Lara again. "Gary and I will make sure that Tamsyn does not fall into the water with her boat." The smile left her face as she watched Lara walk away.

"You okay?" Gary asked Morgelyn.

"Oh, of course I am." She gave a sharp shrug, as if she were pushing away the cloud of suspicion yet again. She tilted her head toward the group of children near the broad oak that stood a few feet from the bridge. "Here comes your new friend." Tamsyn was wiggling her way back to them through older, bigger children, her auburn braids flailing wildly.

"He said to give these to you!" Breathless, she skidded to a stop before them, juggling her doll and three roughly carved pieces of new wood, no bigger than her fist, with a tiny blob of wax and a wick stuck in each. She handed one to Gary and one to Morgelyn, then dashed off again with her own.

"What's this?"

"A gift from a grateful damsel," Morgelyn teased. "'Tis your wish boat. Thank you, Joseph!" she called, and as they neared the knot of people, Gary saw an older man seated under a tree, a makeshift crutch propped behind him, handing out the crudely-carved little boats and accepting copper coins in exchange. He waved in their direction. 

"That is Nia's father. She takes care of him and her brother and their farm. No wonder she runs a little wild on days like these." 

"Should I pay him?" Gary asked. He still had the extra silver coin Fergus had given him to buy lunch.

Morgelyn shook her head. "He refuses to accept it from me, ever since Piran..." She trailed off. 

"You saved his son's life." Gary rubbed his thumb across the rough wood and the smoother dollop of candle. "It's good to know that you have a few friends here," he said. 

"And it is good that you have seen a better side of the village than what Mark and Simon would show you." Morgelyn looked around at the milling, happy knots of people. When Gary nodded, she led him to the bank of the river, where a few lit torches sprouted from the muddy bank. People--mostly children, but a few adults as well--were lighting the candles on their boats from the flames. 

"Set your candle burning," Morgelyn said, "and then take the boat to the river. Make a wish. If the boat reaches the opposite bank with the candle still burning, your wish will come true."

Gary watched the people lining up for their turn at the river bank. A couple dozen more watched from the bridge. Everybody seemed to be having a great time, laughing and visiting and pointing at the flotilla of bobbing candles. "What if it doesn't make it all the way across?"

"Then your wish will not come true. Either way, you know your fortune. 'Tis a bit like knowing the future," she added with a twinkle in her eye. 

"Very funny," Gary muttered. He lit the candle on his boat, then did the same for Morgelyn's. "How is it that this kind of stuff is okay, but healing people isn't?"

"It is how we see the world," Morgelyn said simply. It seemed to Gary like a strange brew of faith and superstition. He followed her to the riverbank, where excited children were laughing and clapping and, some of them, moaning in disappointment. Tamsyn and a group of three other girls about her age were dancing around in a circle, chanting.

"Green is gold,  
Fire is wet,  
Fortune's told,  
Dragon's met!"

"More dragons?" Gary asked under his breath.

"Green is gold," Morgelyn said, touching the new green, fronds of the willow tree, and Gary could still see a hint of yellow in them. "Fire is wet." She nodded at the boats already floating along the river. "Make your wish, and learn your fortune." She knelt on the riverbank, dropped in the boat with a little shove and watched it bob, downstream at a diagonal, until it reached the opposite side. Tamsyn clapped her hands.

"My wish came true, too, Morgelyn!"

The whole thing seemed like a large-scale version of kids blowing out birthday candles. "What about the dragon?" Gary asked again.

"I have never been sure where that part comes from," Morgelyn told him, "but perhaps now that you are here, we will learn. Sail your boat."

"What the heck," Gary muttered. He knelt, not sure what to wish for. The paper? All this to go away? 

Home, he thought, dribbling his fingers in the river, feeling the tug of the current just under the surface. At the right time, after he'd come to do what he had to do, but still...home.

He pushed the boat as hard as he could without toppling in head first, and tried to follow its progress. A gleeful shout and Tamsyn jumping on his back distracted him, and when he stood, the little girl's arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs around his waist, he couldn't distinguish his boat from the dozens of others that were there. "Did it reach?" Tamsyn asked.

"I dunno." It just figured. Well, it was only a superstition; it wasn't as if it meant anything.

"Of course it did," Morgelyn said with a decisive nod. "Get down, Tamsyn, or you will give the man more bruises than he already has."

Strange music, played on something that sounded flute-like, drifted over the crowd, sad and almost longing at first, then picking up a happier tune. Gary couldn't see the player, but he didn't think it sounded like Fergus. Flowers were thrown on the river; children tossed more in the air and ran under the showers of petals. Someone started singing about summer and cuckoos, and before long many voices had taken up the song.

"Dance with us!" Tamsyn shouted, grabbing Morgelyn's hand and dragging her to the growing circle of children, both boys and girls, who were doing little more than skipping in a circle. Gary retreated to the shade of a willow tree and sat down on the soft grass, the basket next to him, intending to finish off Nia's apple. 

"You will not dance, sir?" asked a pleasant, teasing voice. Gary blinked into folds of purple satin, then looked up into the laughing face of Lady Nessa. Belatedly remembering his manners, he got to his feet and made a stilted bow, but he had to gulp down a huge chunk of apple before he could speak.

"I don't know the steps that they dance in...uh, in this part of the world." Remembering that he was supposed to be a shipwreck survivor with amnesia, he added, "Or if I do, I don't remember them."

Sweeping Gary with an assessing gaze from head to toe, she smiled. "Despite your tragic misfortune," she said, with an emphasis on the last two words that might have meant she was making fun of him--or maybe not, he couldn't tell-- "you strike me as someone who knows exactly who he is." Nessa had to look up at him to meet his eyes, yet she still gave the impression that she was the taller one, the superior. Marcia used to be able to do that, too. "'Tis very attractive in a man." Lifting one elegant eyebrow, she inclined her head toward the river and asked, "What did you wish for?"

Apple juice dripped through his fingers, and Gary tossed the core into the tall grass behind him. "I thought wishes don't come true if they're told."

"It could not hurt to tell me, if the future is already foretold." Nessa's gaze darted to the little group of dancers. Other adults and teenagers had joined in, and one line of dancers was weaving around the other in a circle. Morgelyn met Gary's eyes, saw who he was talking to, and stopped in the middle of the melee. A step behind Nessa, he wrinkled his nose and shook his head, a signal that she shouldn't worry, but while Tamsyn pulled her back into the weaving line, she kept looking over her shoulder.

"What about you?" he tried, returning his attention to Nessa. "What did you wish for?"

"Oh, I do not do that sort of thing," she said, with a dismissive wave toward the villagers who were still sending their wishes into the current. "'Tis nothing but a quaint country custom, as is most of the festival you will see today. As quaint as one of Morgelyn's little cures."

Something about the way she watched him, gauging his reaction to the false lightness--was it false?--of that last comment, changed the air around him. Then she blinked, and the friendliness was back in her face. 

"They seem to do the trick," he said, carefully casual with his shrug. He didn't want to let this woman know that he suspected her of baiting him. Maybe that way he wouldn't get hooked. "But I know what you mean about the customs. None of it seems very familiar to me."

"Hmmm." She placed her index finger, heavy with a silver ring, on her lips and tilted her head to the side. "Do you know what I think? I think you come from London, perhaps, or perhaps Plymouth. Most assuredly you are of the nobility. You are too out of place here to be anything else. Perhaps it would aid your memory if you were to mingle with the proper people."

An alarm tinkled in the back of Gary's brain, but he tried to keep his expression neutral, even interested. "What did you have in mind?"

"Tonight, after dark, there is a wonderful party planned at the manor house. There will be feasting, music, and dancing that is more--" She cleared her throat and gave a brief sniff in the direction of the raucous dancers. "--more befitting the occasion of a saint's feast. Perhaps it would be more to your taste than this country festival."

"But--" Gary began, before he'd thought the thing out properly. Snapping his mouth shut, he shot a glance in Morgelyn's direction, but the music had taken on a wilder, more insistent tone, and the dancers were working hard to keep up with it.

"You may bring her along, if she will come," Nessa said, pleasantly enough. "It might be interesting." What flashed through her eyes reminded Gary of the way the popular gang of hoodlums in junior high would invite Chuck along on their antics, supposedly as an honor, but always, it turned out, so that they would have someone handy to make fun of. Still, Gary knew, this was more than just a power play between two strong women. He also knew that Nessa was sure Morgelyn wouldn't go. So was he. 

"Thank you, but I don't know if I can," he finished lamely.

"You are free to make your own decisions, are you not?" One eyebrow lifted, Nessa patted his chest lightly with a bejeweled hand. "Consider it. I must round up my ladies in waiting and see to the preparations, but I hope to speak with you soon."

Gary dropped a brief nod; Nessa lifted her skirts, swept them around, and walked off into the mingling crowd back in the village center. 

"My friend, we will dine well tonight!" Fergus crowed, peeking out from behind the willow tree. "Lady Nessa's parties are the stuff of legends and ballads." Freckles was with him, and they were both looking a bit rumpled, but Gary decided it would be best not to ask what they'd been up to.

"You don't actually think I'm going to that thing, do you? And who invited you?"

"Cecily did," Fergus told him with a triumphant grin, swinging his companion's hand. "She works in the kitchens, and she told me that one of the musicians was taken ill earlier today, so I plan to offer my services."

"How could they refuse?" Cecily burbled.

"How indeed?" Gasping for breath, Morgelyn joined them. Wisps of hair had escaped her bundled braids, and she tried to tuck some of them back in. "Who is it that would not refuse your skills, Fergus?"

"I have been invited to the party at the manor, though, unlike your dragon slayer, not by Lady Nessa herself," Fergus said with a smirk. 

Morgelyn seemed taken aback; her arms fell to her sides, and she stared hard at Gary. "What does he mean?"

"Lady Nessa did invite me," he admitted, exchanging a glance with Fergus. Morgelyn looked from one to the other in disbelief.

"I think she likes the way you dressed him up." Fergus was enjoying her reaction far too much. 

"Look, I just thought--you said--" Gary shifted a glance at Cecily, who looked as if she were about to burst into more giggles. Taking Morgelyn by the arm, he pulled her out of earshot while Fergus pecked Cecily on the cheek and sent her on her way. Gary lowered his voice to a whisper. "You said you thought she was up to something. I thought it might be a good idea for me to go there and try to see if I can figure out what she's up to."

Arms crossed over her chest, Morgelyn still looked doubtful, but Fergus slapped Gary on the back. "Exactly! We shall corner the dragon in her own lair!"

Morgelyn stared Fergus down. "You thought I should not come here today, but you want to walk into her home? You want Gary to walk into her home, by himself, not knowing anyone, not knowing any of the customs, and spy on her?"

"Precisely!" When Morgelyn pursed her lips, Fergus hurried to finish, "He shall not be alone; I will be there. 'Tis a party, Morgelyn. Halfway through it everyone there will be sotted. They will never know the difference."

Morgelyn's jaw worked, as if she was trying to contain a torrent of rebuttal or, knowing her, sarcasm. But instead she turned back to Gary. "Are you going?" Her tone was carefully neutral, her eyes wide with innocence, but her mouth was drawn in a firm line.

Ever the diplomat, Gary asked, "What do you think we should do?"

"I think you should make up your own mind." She spun on her heel and headed back for the village. Gary had to double step to keep up, Fergus right behind.

"Well, look, don't be mad at me, just 'cause she invited me, I didn't ask her to, and I just thought--look, look at me, would ya?" Gary caught Morgelyn's sleeve, trying to make his point, but when he spun her around, she flinched, and he realized he'd grabbed the injured arm. Pulling his hand back instantly, he stuttered out, "I-I'm sorry. Look, I'm just trying to help, I just want to be of some use."

"You have been useful, Gary; what a ridiculous thing to say." No longer bothering to hide her irritation, she rubbed her arm and shook her head in exasperation. 

Gary had the feeling he'd gone off the high dive and into the deep end without even knowing it. "Morgelyn--"

The breath she drew in through gritted teeth was a sign of how tight a reign she had on her temper. "We can talk about this later. Right now I promised Tamsyn a story."

Throwing up his hands as she walked away, Gary asked Fergus, "What's her problem?"

"I would venture to say that she does not like letting her dragon slayer out of her sight." Fergus waggled his eyebrows. "Do the ladies to get out their claws over you like this back home?" 

Gary fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Morgelyn isn't jealous, not like that."

"No, but she does not like the thought of you with Nessa." Pretended to cough, Fergus pointed discreetly to his right as he covered his mouth. Gary looked and saw Nessa, on the outskirts of the group now gathering around the well a satisfied smirk on her face as she watched Morgelyn stalk away. When she turned a fraction and saw Gary, she smiled and waved. He didn't know what else to do, so he waved back, a weak smile on his face, and hoped Morgelyn hadn't seen it.


	12. Chapter 12

_Life gives us magic and life brings us tragedy  
Everyone suffers some loss  
Still we have faith in it, childlike hope  
There's a reason that outweighs the cost_  
~ Beth Nielsen Chapman

Marissa's weariness caught up with her in the library stacks. A yawn that nearly cracked her jaw escaped while she was fast-forwarding through the third book on tape for references to Celtic knots, ancient magic, Latin translations, dragons, crystal balls--anything remotely helpful, anything that might ring a bell. The Regenstien Library had an extensive collection, something like seven million volumes, but too much of it wasn't immediately accessible to her. She knew she wasn't going to be able to convince the overworked reference librarians who'd spent the day helping her out that Braille dictionaries for ancient Gaelic languages was an emergency request. 

And how was library research going to help Gary, anyway? All she'd found out so far--and it had taken nearly an hour to go from her stumbling pronunciation of the Latin phrases to an English translation--was that the words she'd heard in the lab-- _salve nos, ad adjuvandum me festina_ \--meant "save us," and "make haste to help me." Knowing that they were frightened pleas for aid only made her feel more helpless.

She removed the headphones and tucked them into her bag, rubbing grit from her eyes with fingers that were sore from all the reading she'd done. There had to be an answer somewhere; she just wasn't finding it. Back in the lab, when the globe had changed, she had thought that maybe, just possibly, it was as simple as making a wish. That was, after all, what she had done--stood there and wished for Gary to come home. But when she'd tried again, alone in the ladies' room of the library, nothing at all had happened. No warmth, no vibration, no change.

No Gary.

There had to be a way. But right now, this was all she could think of to do, this research that seemed to be leading nowhere. Her open bag sat on the chair next to her, and every now and then she reached in, just to reassure herself that the scrying glass was still there, and that it wasn't changing on its own. She kept her fingers moving across the thick pages of Braille, but rested her heavy head on her arm. Finally, like an undergrad during exam week, drifted off into sleep, cheek pressed against the polished wooden table.

The jingle of Spike's tags woke her. Marissa was immediately aware of another presence nearby, and in the confusion of waking up in the midst of the books and Braille printouts, in a strange place at an hour she couldn't immediately identify, caution kicked in. Lifting her head from the table, she reached down at the same time, aiming for Spike's harness and brushing another hand instead. Slender fingers, female--but that was all the impression she had time for. The fingers pulled away and a breathy, familiar voice stammered, "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I was just--your dog--"

Marissa ran her hand along the edge of the library table; the polished wood reassured her that she was still in the same place. "Kelyn?"

"Yes, it's me. Uh--hi."

"Hi?" Frowning, Marissa asked, "What are you doing here?" 

"I work here. Over in microfilms and periodicals, actually, but I was in the break room and Tom was talking about finding stuff and scanning it so he could print it out in Braille. From the kinds of stuff he was talking about, I started to wonder. So I came to see if it was you. I didn't mean to wake you, but your dog was watching me, and I sat down to pet him. I know I shouldn't, but I'm a sucker when it comes to animals."

"It's okay." Marissa cut the apology short, scratching behind Spike's ears. "He likes the attention, and as long as he's not working, it doesn't hurt anything."

There was a scrape of a chair over the hard tiled floor. "He's really a cool dog. I mean, I know you can't see him, but he's beautiful. In some animals' eyes, you can almost see a soul, and he's like that."

"I know," Marissa said quietly. "Spike's a big help to me, but he's also a good friend." She hesitated for a moment before adding, " I wouldn't have him if it wasn't for Gary."

"That's why you're here, isn't it? When Tom said you were looking up stuff about magic and the Celts, I figured you were looking into it. Did you have any luck?"

"A little," Marissa said guardedly. She began collecting the printouts and the books she wanted to take with her. Heaven knew they wouldn't be a whole lot of help, but she was already clutching at straws. A few more wouldn't hurt.

"Please, Miss Clark--"

She stopped organizing the materials at the earnest pleading in Kelyn's voice. "Call me Marissa." 

"Marissa. I'm sorry I wasn't more help yesterday. I was just so shocked about what happened to Mr. Hobson, and to think I might have--" Kelyn gulped. "Do you think I might have caused this by giving him that globe? Because, believe me, if I'd thought it would hurt him, I would have thrown it away." 

It must have taken courage for Kelyn to approach her like this, when she could have just walked right by. Marissa set her materials down in a pile and turned toward the girl. "I know you didn't mean any harm. That's not why I wanted to speak with you. If there's any way, any possible connection to what happened to Gary, to his disappearance, I had to know."

"Have you found anything?"

"An archaeology student is working on a rough translation of the inscription underneath the crystal ball, but other than that, no."

"There's an inscription? Wow, I never knew. What does it say?"

"That's the trouble. It's in Gaelic, and an old dialect at that, according to Josh--the grad student. He has a friend who's working on it. Bablefish-dot-com won't exactly be able to handle something like this." Marissa was having a rapid-fire internal debate about whether to ask Kelyn if she'd ever seen the scrying glass change the way it had for Gary, and then again this morning. Surely, though, she would have mentioned it if it had happened before. 

"Well, if I can do anything at all..." But Kelyn fell silent as heavy footsteps crossed the floor, slowing and then stopping a few feet away. 

Spike's tail thumped against Marissa's legs, and she shifted in her chair, turning toward the new arrival. "Crumb?"

"Huh," he grunted. "How'd you know?"

"Old Spice." And overprotective ex-cop, but she wasn't sure how to explain that part. Sometimes she just knew.

Crumb's gruff, "Hello," his acknowledgment of Kelyn, echoed with mistrust. 

"Kelyn works here," Marissa told him. 

"And I need to get back to periodicals. My break's long over." Kelyn's chair scraped back. "I just wanted to--well, to say that I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Thank you." Marissa waited until Kelyn's footsteps retreated, then asked Crumb, "What about you?"

"What about me what?"

"C'mon, Crumb. I know you're not here looking for the latest Tom Clancy novel."

He stepped closer and dropped his voice into a quieter register, as hushed as Crumb was capable of getting. "Quinn told me where you went this morning. I went over there and they sent me here. Hey Spike," he added, lowering himself into the seat Kelyn had vacated. "You made that kid's day, when you called him and asked for his help."

The questions he'd left unspoken--why hadn't she called Crumb? What had she been looking for? What had she found?--hung in the air between them. "Patrick has a kind heart," Marissa said, instead of telling Crumb what he really wanted to know. "But I don't think he sent you here."

"Nah. I've been trying to catch up with you all day." Crumb sighed, and the wooden chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "We have to go to the police station. It's not that," he added hastily, when Marissa clutched the edge of the table, her heart in her throat. "They haven't found him. Not even a sign, and actually, they're about to call off the search." His voice grew gentler than she'd ever known it to be. "They're starting to wrap up the investigation, Marissa. Nick, the sergeant you met yesterday, wants you to come down and give a formal statement. It's standard procedure when someone witnesses an accident involving a fatality."

By now, she should have been used to this. It shouldn't have been so hard to hear. It shouldn't have been so hard to breathe. She shouldn't have needed Spike's head in her lap, his muzzle pushing against her hand. But she did. "They haven't found Gary, but they still think he's down there?" 

"Marissa--"

"Because the funny thing is, I don't." She brought her hand down on the pile of books with a thump, nudged Spike away, and drew the books onto her lap. "But they'll never believe me, so what's the point?" Not again, she was not choking up again. Not here, not now. The wire spirals that bound the books were leaving imprints on her palm, but she tightened her grip even further. 

"Sweetheart, it won't take long, I promise. All you have to do is tell the truth. Except for that newspaper part."

Drawing in a deep breath as she uncurled her fingers, Marissa tried to sound rational. "I can't tell them all of the truth. They'd never believe me. They'd lock me up in a nuthouse. Chuck already wants to, and you're too kind to say it, but--"

"But nothin'," Crumb said fiercely. "Nobody's gonna lock you up, you hear me? Look, I'm sorry it's gotta be this way, but at least if you go down there right now, you can get this out of the way once and for all."

Why did kind words stab at her heart? "Crumb--"

"I'm just talking about the police part of it. That's all I meant."

It took a Herculean effort, but Marissa gathered up everything she'd been thinking about for the past few hours and shoved it down deep, away and inside. She'd indulged herself in this all day, and made no progress at all. For a few hours, she supposed she could play a different role. Crumb already was lifting the books out of her lap when she nodded. "Okay."

They stood, and Crumb asked, "What happened to your hand?"

"I scratched it back in the lab. Archaeological emergency." She forced a wry smile as she shrugged into her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder.

"What d'ya mean, emergency?"

"It's fine, Crumb, really." She slipped the hand in question into her bag, checking one more time to make sure the scrying glass was still there. Cool to her touch, it rested atop the makeup kit she hadn't used in days. Nodding to herself, Marissa picked up Spike's harness and reached for Crumb's elbow. "Let's go."

Crumb didn't move. "But if you need--"

"It was the cat, Crumb. Gary's cat was there in the archaeology lab. Do you really want to know any more?"

There was a pause, and Marissa raised an eyebrow. Maybe he really did, but the noise he made next was part "har-rumph" and part snort. "Guess I don't."

Marissa wondered whether he really didn't, or if he was just following her lead. But she tucked that thought down with the rest of the day's riddles. "Let's go," she said again, and Crumb led her across the polished floor toward the check-out desk.

  


* * *

_"Story," the Old Man said, looking beyond the  
cave to the dragon's tracks. "Story is our wall  
against the dark."_  
~ Jane Yolen

The light deepened to gold as the sun started its slow descent. Rubbing his bare wrist, Gary wondered what time it was. Must have been close to dinner; his stomach was growling, and the apple he'd just eaten had only sharpened his appetite. He and Fergus hung back from the knot of people gathered by the well, while Tamsyn dragged Morgelyn forward. Joseph, the old man who'd made the boats, was already sitting there on the ledge of rocks. Blue eyes sparkled against his sun-leathered skin, and the hands that had carved the little boats shook with arthritis when he tried to gesture. His story was about a magical cup that broke because someone had lied. Not the kind of thing Chuck should have, Gary thought. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and asked Fergus, "So everybody sits around and tells stories all night?"

"Not all night. Only until it is dark enough for bonfires and more dancing. By then, of course, you and I will be at Lady Nessa's feast." Fergus rubbed his hands together, a gleam in his eyes, but Gary blinked at him, then looked away. Some of his 'gotta do something' resolve had faded in the light of Morgelyn's tense reaction to the invitation. If he didn't fit in here in the village, he was pretty sure he wouldn't at some fancy party, either. 

He'd lost track of Joseph's tale, so Gary scanned the crowd for familiar faces. He didn't see Mark and Simon. If luck held, they'd sit up at the tavern and drink until they passed out. Father Ezekiel stood on the other side of the gathering, talking amicably with Declan and greeting those who passed. Despite what Morgelyn had said about Ezekiel's relatively recent arrival, he seemed more at home than Father Malcolm. The second priest stood apart from the others, a few yards beyond Ezekiel, with a slight sneer on his face. Maybe that was just his natural expression. 

Children sat on the ground weaving flowers into wreaths while they listened to the story. Adults, their hands filled with tankards of ale and hunks of bread, chatted and laughed. On the surface everyone seemed friendly and relaxed; it was like the Hickory Fourth of July picnic without the sparklers. And yet, when he looked closely at the villagers' faces, what Gary saw left him feeling unsettled. Judging by the children they tended, most of them couldn't have been much older than Gary, and since he'd always heard that people in the past had married early, they might even be younger. But they looked careworn and wary, old long before they should have been.

No wonder, really. In a small town like this, if as many people had died of the plague as Morgelyn had said, they all must have lost someone they cared for. For most of them, it had probably been several people. He tried to imagine his parents, Chuck, Marissa--Crumb and Patrick, he thought, glancing over at the priest and the young monk--all gone in a matter of days. What would something like that do to him?

He couldn't imagine it; didn't want to. Luckily, his thoughts scattered when Fergus nudged him and handed over one of the pastries he'd bought earlier. It was shaped like a calzone, and Gary ventured one tentative bite. Not bad, though the flavors were definitely strange. Potatoes and fish and lots of strong, unfamiliar spices, but he was so hungry that the taste didn't matter much. 

Applause and laughter scattered through the group when Joseph finished his story, and up near the well, Tamsyn pulled insistently at Morgelyn's arm. "Your turn! Tell the one about the prince and the milk maid, or one about Saint Bridgid! Start with, 'Once upon a time!'" The girl hopped from one foot to the other, and Gary wondered if there was any way to get the kid some Ritalin. Morgelyn ignored Tamsyn, extending a hand toward the old man.

"Joseph, will you stay? I have been trying to remember a story my grandmother used to tell about how the river got its name."

Efflam, Gary thought, and the last bit of pie lodged in his throat. The same name as on the base of the Dragon's Eye, right next to his. 

Stroking his goatee, Fergus leaned in close and whispered, "What is she digging for?" Gary shook his head. 

Joseph frowned at Morgelyn. "I've not heard that story since I was young. Since before your grandmother's day, lass. Enora used to tell it to all of us children, but most of us are gone now." He looked sadly around the group, and Gary realized that there really weren't many people who looked to be Joseph's age. 

"Can you tell us what you remember?"

"Let me see," he said, rubbing one hand up and down his arm. "Let me think for a moment." 

Nia pushed her way through the restless, mingling crowd, handing Joseph food and something to drink. But she only stayed long enough to make sure her father took it. A young man appeared at her elbow and they went off together, laughing at some private joke.

Gary ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to get rid of the spicy aftertaste of the pie he'd just eaten. Someone nudged his elbow, and when he turned, Declan pressed a mug of ale into his hands, as helpful and wide-eyed as Patrick ever was.

"Thanks," Gary said with a nod over the rim of the mug. He would have preferred water, but even warm, this beer was better than nothing. 

"Listening to stories can be thirsty work," Declan confided, but his eyes twinkled. "You looked like you needed quenching. I must return to my uncle now." 

Confused by the kindness, wondering if there was some ulterior motive behind it, Gary stared after him, but Declan didn't look back. When Father Ezekiel caught him watching the young man, Gary quickly turned his attention back to the well, where Joseph was swallowing a swig of his own ale.

"Let me see, let me see," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The river's name is Efflam, yes, and Efflam was a knight from the western isles, if I remember aright. I always heard that he came here because the village was plagued with a dragon."

Tamsyn squealed, happily frightened, and ran to her mother, who'd just joined the group. Gary watched as Lara caught Morgelyn's eye and nodded with a reassuring smile before drawing her daughter to her side. Hopefully that meant Anna was okay.

"A dragon slayer, eh?" Fergus called out, elbowing Gary in the ribs. Gary flashed him a disgusted glare.

"Do you remember the story?" Morgelyn asked Joseph. She clutched the edge of the well, practically vibrating with impatience. Gary wondered if she was about to start dancing around like Tamsyn.

"Bits and pieces are all I have. Must have been the age of the lassie here last I heard it." Joseph pointed a quaking finger at Tamsyn. "They used to tell us that the dragon lived in the sea caves down yonder."

"Ah, that dragon," said a rough, strident alto that was familiar to Gary. He craned his neck and saw the lady who'd tried to sell him a lobster earlier in the day standing near Father Ezekiel. "That's the one me mum used to tell me."

"What did she tell you, Essie?" Morgelyn motioned the old woman forward, scooting over on the well and patting the space. 

"Tales to scare children away from the caves," Essie said, lowering herself slowly to the rocky seat. "But what a dragon it were. Eyes of burning coal, and talons of bronze." She held up her hands, palms out, gnarled fingers curled. The littlest children squealed, and the older ones laughed. "Breathed fire, it did, hot enough to melt tin. Had scales as hard as rock, and twice as ugly." 

"But that is every dragon," Declan called out. "Or so I have heard tell," he added quickly, when he realized the entire group had turned to stare at him. His ears glowed pink against his pale hair.

"This one was different, boy," Essie crowed. "It was ours. Guarded its treasure in our caves. Took its meals from our stock, maybe sometimes from our flesh."

With a shriek, Tamsyn turned her face to her mother's skirt. The older children were fascinated.

"When was the dragon here? Did you see it?" asked the redheaded boy, Will, that Gary remembered from the day before.

"Naw, was long before us, even," Essie told him, and his eyes widened.

"It was a time before our grandmothers' grandmothers, but they still remembered." Joseph sat up straighter, warming to the story. "Told us that whenever a lamb was missing from a fold, whenever fishing lines were tangled and empty, whenever a cow could not be found in her pasture, everyone knew that the dragon was to blame."

Essie nodded until grey locks tumbled into her eyes. "Weren't like now, when we never know what will curse us next." A murmur ran through the crowd, and several people made the sign of the cross. Lara traced it on Tamsyn's forehead.

"There are no dragons now," a young man standing next to Lara pointed out. "What happened to it?"

"Efflam must'a come and killed it," Essie said with a shrug. 

"Was it a great battle?" James, Tamsyn's brother, jumped up from the ground, as did several of his friends. He picked up a stick. "Did the dragon breathe fire, and did Efflam have a sword?"

Joseph held out one hand, palm up. "Must have, like Essie said. Why else would they name the river after him?"

Fergus cleared his throat, then strode forward into the center of the group. "Of course there was fire and a sword, how else would a dragon story go?" His voice rang out, and he took the stick from James, striking a ridiculous pose. "There was a tremendous battle in the caves, and up and down the beach! Efflam danced around the dragon, even got a few cuts in." Here, he hopped over and poked at Gary with the stick. Gary batted it away, and Fergus turned back to the giggling kids. "But the dragon's hide was tough as tin, and whenever Efflam tried for his head, the dragon would breathe fire, until the hair on the knight's neck was singed. And finally, after a night and a day, Efflam delivered the death blow! He sent his sword sailing toward the dragon's heart, and down it fell, vanquished by the truest knight in all of Christendom!" Now the dragon, Fergus clutched at his chest and fell to the ground. The boys cheered, some of the adults laughed, and Morgelyn rolled her eyes. But Joseph and Essie stared at him, foreheads deeply creased.

"'Tis not the ending I remember," Joseph said slowly. "I always pictured the final battle taking place up in the churchyard. Someone must have told me once that it happened there." 

Shifting from one foot to the other, Gary cast a wary eye up at the churchyard. This all seemed like a waste of time. Amusing, yeah, but it didn't go very far in explaining why he was there, or what that Dragon's Eye crystal ball thing was for. 

"Was there really a dragon here, right here?" Tamsyn asked, awed. She looked around as if she expected an attack at any moment. 

"'Course there was," said a gruff, wasted voice, and Gary turned to see Robert standing right behind him. "We live at the end of the world."

A whisper ran through the crowd, and people scooted out of the way as the blind man swept his stick in front of him. Even the sunlight seemed to glare off Robert, resisting him. Seeing him for the first time out of shadow and darkness, Gary was struck by how old and wild he looked; his hair was a white rat's nest, and his tattered clothes hung on him every which way. 

"Old friend, you are welcome," Joseph said warmly. Essie let out her cackling laugh. 

"Please, Robert, help them tell the story." Morgelyn turned pleading eyes to Gary, who was closest to the old man. Shoving his empty tankard at Fergus, Gary took Robert's elbow.

"Help the lady out, why don't ya?" he whispered. "You can set us all straight, here, tell the story the right way."

"Help?" There was confusion in the furrow of Robert's brow, in the wild darting of his useless eyes, but he let Gary lead him to the well. When Gary turned to go back, Robert caught his sleeve. "You," he said, "you were out roaming last night by moonlight." He was loud enough for everyone to hear; behind Gary, conversations stopped. Morgelyn's eyes widened, and he felt as if they were on shaky ground, as if being out after dark was a no-no. 

"I was just--uh--" 

"Mushrooms!" Fergus declared loudly, falsely bright. "We were hunting mushrooms! For stew!"

Nobody near them was buying it; that was easy to see from the suspicious looks they shot at both men. Gary ducked his head and hurried back to stand by the bard, wishing he could go hide in the forest instead. Especially when he looked back and saw Lady Nessa talking to Father Malcolm. She twisted the rings on her fingers and watched the scene with hawk-eyed calculation. Something about it had distracted her from her party preparations. It was more than the wool he was wearing that made Gary's skin crawl.

"Lookin' for dragons, were you?" Robert called after him. "Playing with fire. End of the world."

Another murmur ran through the crowd, but Joseph said in a soothing baritone, "It felt that way several years ago, my friend, but here we are."

"Not talkin' about time," Robert growled, impatiently pounding his staff on the ground. "The land."

"He is right," Declan said. "The monks and their histories have taught me that Cornwall is a special place." He cleared his throat, took in Ezekiel's permanently suspicious scowl with a gulp, and went on. "The Roman armies did not venture here; the Norsemen did not raid us."

"King Arthur lived here," Will piped up. 

Joseph smiled at him, a beam of light in his tanned face. "That he did, child, that he did."

"I saw a map once." Declan picked up a stick from the ground and traced a shape that was vaguely like the England Gary remembered from globes and maps. He pointed to the lower left-hand corner. "Our home looks like the long toe of those fancy shoes worn at the courts. It has passable ports, but 'tis too far from the heart of England to be at much risk from invasion."

Essie snorted. "It did not keep us safe from the black boils."

"'Twas our own fault," Robert told her, nearly growling. "Or at least, some of ours."

A startled, horrified look crossed Morgelyn's face, and Gary exchanged an uneasy glance with Fergus. Robert was right in more ways than one. As far as these people were concerned, they really had survived the end of the world. If he had been in their place, he'd have wondered why he was the one to survive. 

He wasn't the shipwreck victim, he realized with a start. They were. They were clutching at the fragments of the world they'd known, like they were holding onto the pieces of the dragon story. Even Fergus and Morgelyn. It wasn't clothes and accents and customs that made them different from the friends he knew; it was this survival, this living in a world where everything they'd counted on had changed. Of course Fergus was cynical and panicky, adamant about his warnings. Of course Morgelyn searched for a dragon slayer, some kind of epic hero that Gary couldn't be. Otherwise they'd--they'd what? Drown in anger and drink like Mark and Simon? Clutch protectively at the children like Lara and Anna, at a future they could barely bring themselves to hope for? Turn to the Church like Declan had? None of those sounded like his friends.

So what was he supposed to do about it all? That was the piece of the puzzle he still didn't get.

"Robert," Morgelyn said softly, breaking the uneasy silence, "what about the story? How did Efflam kill the dragon?"

"Ah, he did no such thing." Robert gave a downward, disgusted wave of his hand. "He followed the dragon through the caves. Came out up yonder. Efflam looked the dragon in the eye in the full light of day and dropped his sword."

"That was stupid," James pronounced.

"Are you sure?" Morgelyn touched Robert's arm. "I have always heard tell that no man could truly look a dragon in the eye and live."

"You might want to remember that, friend," Fergus whispered, eyes twinkling at Gary over the rim of his cup. 

"Tha's true." Essie nodded and sent her curls flapping again.

"So he died?" Will asked incredulously. "The dragon _won_?"

"No," Morgelyn said slowly. One finger traced a pattern on her skirt--like the base of the Dragon's Eye, Gary thought. "It must not have been a real dragon."

Joseph shrugged. "That was the part old Enora never wanted to tell us. Said we were not ready."

"Told me." Robert said with a satisfied nod. "Told your grandmother, girl, once at least. I was there."

"Grandmother never told me, not that I remember." Her finger stopped, and she stared down at it. "There was not time." 

Essie reached over and gave Morgelyn's shoulder a pat. "Never is, girl. Never enough time."

"Eyes weren't dragon's," Robert muttered cryptically. "Too many colors, hiding truth."

There was a moment of quiet, while people puzzled it out. 

"I know!" Tamsyn cried, jumping up and down as if she were attached to a pogo stick. "The dragon was 'chanted, like the frog that was really a prince!"

"Eh, girl's not so silly after all." Robert nodded and pounded his stick at the ground again for emphasis. "Enchantment. It was no dragon. Wizard got himself caught in his own spell, got hidden inside the dragon. Last bit of the old magic left in this part of the world, he was. When Efflam figured it out, the wizard changed back."

A few muffled gasps ran through the crowd. "Is that true?" James asked his mother.

"Nothing but a story," Father Ezekiel said, the twist of his mouth so much like Crumb's that Gary expected the next words out of it to be "mumbo jumbo." Gary started to grin, but then, behind Ezekiel's back, he saw Nessa and Father Malcolm exchange pointed glances. Nessa's smile took on the glint of triumph, and Gary felt as if someone had slipped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. That smile was aimed right at Morgelyn.

He followed it, saw his friend sitting there taking all this so seriously it might as well have been true. She was the only one with dark skin, the only one in a red dress, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. He finally understood Fergus's earlier doubts, and why the bard was twitching next to him now. Even Gary didn't stand out as much as Morgelyn did. She was making herself a target. But he didn't know how to stop it without making things worse.

"If it was a wizard, and not a dragon, why had he terrorized the people of Gwenyllan?" Morgelyn asked. 

Robert laughed, an eerie, fingernails-on-blackboard kind of sound. "Efflam asked the same thing. Dragon told him there was no curse without a blessing--"

"--and no blessing without a curse," Joseph finished. "Of course. My father used to tell me that all the time, but I never understood what he meant. But what was the blessing?"

"Dragon slayer," Essie said with a cackle. "Bet he was a handsome thing."

"Protection, woman!" Robert waved his stick in Essie's direction, and Morgelyn pulled the old woman out of its way. "Dragon slayer was protection. Wizard said they would always have protection, as long as they believed in the old ways. All he wanted--make 'em believe. If nobody believes in wizards, they vanish. Poof!" He flung his arms wide, and Essie would have fallen into the well if Morgelyn hadn't caught her. Drawing back into himself, he scowled even deeper, forehead creasing over his clouded eyes. "That is why they promised."

"Who promised? Promised what?" Joseph asked.

"That they would remember, fool. That they would not forget the old magic. Dragon left them a way to fight sickness, to call the dragon slayer, all kinds of protections, it's said. Treasures and talismans. Most of 'em gone now."

"I remember that, just barely," said Essie. "No one ever believed that last part about the treasure. Probably why they stopped telling it."

"Story's left in shards," Robert muttered. "Gotta pick 'em all up if you want the truth."

"A way to call the dragon slayer?" Morgelyn whispered. 

Pinned to the spot where he stood, Gary fought the sensation of skin-crawling certainty that even though everything the old man had said impossible, it was true. Beside him, Fergus whistled quietly and bobbed on his toes. Morgelyn stared at them over the heads of the children. 

"Better than that, right under their feet he left a cure for ailments and pestilence." Laced with anger, Robert's voice was rising in intensity. He was getting more coherent, Gary realized, which did nothing to ease his mind about the truth of what the man was saying. "Blessing in return for the curse. As long as we remembered, it was there, a blessing for all." He pounded his staff so hard that Tamsyn jumped. "But you all forgot, and now it's gone, it was gone when we needed it most! Fools!"

People backed away, looking confused or frightened or both. 

"Dragon's wort," Morgelyn said slowly, and Robert turned and sniffed in her direction. "Grandmother always told me to look for dragon's wort near the river. She knew what it looked like, what it could do, but we could never find any."

Robert nodded, his righteous indignation gone as quickly as it had come. "Was never your fault, girl. No one believed. Takes more than one person to make a village of believers, takes more than one person to remember a story."

"Efflam stayed on, you know," Essie said. "I do remember that part. Up at the old manor house, that was his."

"Maybe the dragon's treasures are up there!" James bounced to his feet, his friends with him. "We can go look!"

"Nothing there," Robert said, his scowl deepening until his eyes were nearly lost in the wrinkles around them. "Nothing there at all. I searched. Nothing." He started coughing again, though not as badly as the day before. When he recovered his breath, he muttered, "We forgot. We lost."

All around Gary, guilty looks skittered across their downturned faces. Then someone sighed, someone else chuckled nervously, and the mood was broken. "Ah, 'tis only a story," someone near him said. "Would not have worked."

"Would not have worked because you did not believe! Over the years you have all lost faith, and now where are you? A loose lot of idiots, falling apart from your lack of belief!" Robert stood, his voice taking on the same wild edge it had had the night before, and people started to drift away from the circle, some laughing, some scowling, many shaking themselves out of the story's spell. "If you had kept the faith, we could have found the plant, found the dragon slayer, and my family would not have died!" 

"Robert?" Morgelyn touched the old man's arm. 

"I told you not to play with fire!" he growled, turning on her. Gary started for the pair, pushing through the rapidly-dispersing villagers like a salmon swimming upstream.

Father Ezekiel got there first. He grabbed Robert by the elbow. "Come, old man, let me feed you, eh? A tankard of ale ought to put you in mind of better things."

Morgelyn stood, wonder and worry evident on her face as she stared after them. Gary was about to say something to her, but a soft touch on his arm brought him up short.

"Magical treasures and dragon slayers. What an amusing story--and yet, with a hint of truth."

Gary jumped at the familiar voice and saw Nessa standing right behind him. "People still fear the pestilence, even now," she said. "Think how much money they would pay for such a cure."

"Think how many lives could be saved," Morgelyn snapped, but Fergus drew her toward Lara and Tamsyn, and they fell into quiet conversation while Nessa kept Gary cornered.

"Have you considered my offer?" Her eyes were alight with something more eager, and more dangerous, than they had been before. Gary had the feeling that she, too, knew that what had just been said was more than a simple story.

"I--uh--I'm not sure--"

"Of course you are," she said, smiling confidence at him. "I wish to speak to you, to help you remember your past and find where you truly belong." She looked around the little village and wrinkled her nose. When Gary didn't answer, she cocked her head. "I suppose you to be a man of good manners?" 

Swallowing hard, Gary nodded.

Nessa slipped one of her rings, a small gold band set with a ruby, from her finger, and took Gary's hand in her own, turning it palm up. "I know that if a lady were to vouchsafe her treasure into your keeping, you would not betray her trust." Curling his unresisting fingers over the ring, she smiled, and Gary searched in vain for any sign of the warmth or friendliness he thought he'd seen there before. It was gone, erased entirely by whatever she'd taken from the dragon's tale. 

"Bring me the ring tonight, good sir, and I shall show you how a true lady rewards her knight." And with that, she was gone, her skirts swirling as she joined a group of giggling younger women. She herded them all to a carriage that sat waiting on the edge of town. 

Gary gulped as he eyed the ring. What was he supposed to do now? He looked up and found Morgelyn regarding him from a few feet away with a frown that was more perplexed than hostile. 

"I will tell you what is worse than dragons, friend," said a rueful voice at Gary's elbow. Fergus shook his head with a dramatic sigh. "Women." 

Glaring at Fergus, Gary yanked his hood off and rubbed the back of his head, let the air cool the back of his neck. Fergus chuckled. "You must have skin as tender as a babe's."

"If you can put up with this stuff, yours must be as rough as a--" Gary couldn't think of a good analogy that Fergus would know, and he didn't want to talk about sandpaper or anything with all these people around. 

"Really, Gary, I think it is a little early for a betrothal, don't you?" Morgelyn's voice was wry as she joined them, pointing at his hand.

Gary opened his fist and looked at the ruby ring, then at his friends. "What does she want from me, anyway?" 

Fergus snorted. "If you need me to tell you that, then you are not as wise as I took you to be."

"She wants the same thing Nia does. She is just a little less obvious," Morgelyn said.

"It's more than that." Lowering his voice, Gary told them both, "You should have seen her when you and Robert started talking about treasure. She knows something, I'm sure of it. Plus she looked like she wanted to..."

"Eat you alive?" Fergus suggested.

"More like jump down somebody's throat to get what she wanted. I think we--" Gary meant Fergus, but it was Morgelyn he was looking at. "I think we should go and see if we can find out what she's up to."

"That is your choice." Morgelyn shrugged one shoulder. "But whatever you do, be careful around her. I do not trust her."

"I don't exactly, either," Gary admitted. 

"It is decided then!" Fergus said, rubbing his hands together and then hurrying off for his pack. "Wait for me here, friend."

Gary watched Morgelyn roll her eyes at Fergus's back. He took a deep breath. "Do you think Robert was right?" he asked. "Do you think the Dragon's Eye was really a gift from a wizard?"

"The story is so old, been twisted so many times, that I am not certain. But I do think it is a bit of the old magic, and I think the story is around to explain it." Morgelyn glanced over at the clearing near the river, where most of the villagers were building a bonfire. "Think what it would mean to everyone here if they could believe a story like that," she said wistfully. "To be able to cure the illnesses that strike would mean a great deal indeed."

They both jumped at a sudden purr and a soft "meow." 

"You see?" Morgelyn asked, and bent to pick up the ginger tabby butting its head against her skirt. "Even your cat agrees."

"For all I know, that thing's old enough to be a dragon," Gary said, narrowing his eyes at a very contented Cat. "You think that's why I'm here? To make people believe in this stuff?" Morgelyn nodded, stroking the tabby with a thoughtful expression on her face. Gary chewed on his lip for a minute. He didn't want to tell Morgelyn about the looks Nessa had been shooting her, any more than he'd wanted to tell Marissa about the kids trading racial slurs and fighting. If she was going to be a target, he wanted to know for what, and the way to do that had landed right in his lap, or rather, his palm. "I think maybe I should see what Lady Nessa's up to," he muttered.

"I understand that, and I agree in principle, but Gary--" Morgelyn swallowed, one hand wrapped around the loose skin and fur at Cat's neck. Her face was still troubled; it reminded him of the look Marissa had worn when warning him about Kelyn Gillespie. And here he was about to walk away again, and Fergus as well.

"Be honest." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Are you gonna be okay here by yourself?"

She smiled at that. "I am not alone. I have my friends here, the people I have always known. And now I have your cat." The feline pressed itself closer to her, purring like a blender stuck on "mix." 

"It's just--" Gary couldn't stop his glance from straying toward the tavern. 

Following his look, Morgelyn lowered her voice and tightened her hold on Cat. "I know why you worry, and I promise to steer clear of rough waters, so long as you do the same." After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. "Just be sure you come home before the moon sets, or you might lose your way on the moor," she warned when Fergus returned with his pack.

"It'll only be a little while." He stuck a finger in Cat's face. "Behave yourself," he told it. "Watch out for her." 

Morgelyn laughed at that. 

"Come along, Cinderella," Fergus said with a grin. "We must hurry if we're to enjoy the ball before you turn into a pumpkin."

Gary looked back once, and saw Morgelyn watching them go, silhouetted by the growing flames of a bonfire the villagers were starting in the center of town. He almost turned back, but she waved, and encouraged by that, he tromped off after Fergus, who was whistling happily. 

"Cinderella?" Gary clutched the ring in his hand, hard and sharp at the edges, but beautiful. Kind of like Nessa. "Wouldn't that make you the ugly stepsister?"

"And Lady Nessa your fairy godmother," Fergus told him with a wicked grin. 

"Somehow," Gary muttered, "I don't see this ending happily ever after."  


* * *

  
_Blind faith or hallucination,_  
How do you tell between the two?  
~ Maria McKee

Halfhearted rain spattered the windshield as Crumb steered his car into the pre-rush hour traffic. For the umpteenth time, he wished that he'd sprung for intermittent wipers. He blew out a frustrated breath when the blades squeaked on the too-dry glass, which only filled up with drops the minute he turned them off. 

Of course, the scraping on the windshield wouldn't have gotten on his nerves so much if the inside of the car hadn't been too quiet for comfort. Marissa sat stiffly in the seat next to him, a silent, exhausted Sphinx. Clearing his throat, keeping his voice as guardedly casual as he could, he asked, "So what'd you find out?" 

"To the Taoists, dragons were spirits that showed the way," she murmured, so softly that he wondered if she was even awake. Wherever she was, it wasn't with him. "The Celts drew dragons eating their own tails."

"Why would anything be dumb enough to eat itself?" Crumb wondered. No answer, nothing about Hobson or crystal balls. Just more windshield scraping and distant sirens.

"Where's Chuck?" she asked after another couple of blocks.

Speaking of dumb. Crumb decided against saying that part out loud. "I dunno." Shrugging, he flipped the wipers on, then off again. "Talked to him when I called your place this morning, but he wasn't there when I called back later."

Marissa sighed, wrapped her arms around the undergrown suitcase she carried as a purse, and tilted her head back against the seat. Crumb snuck a look at her after he made the turn onto State Street. He'd never been the most astute guy when it came to reading a woman's moods, but it didn't take a magnifying glass to see the wear and tear of the past few days on his passenger's face. He waited out the silence for a few more minutes, but she didn't volunteer any more about what she'd been up to.

Would it have killed her to let him in on the secret? Sure, she was talking about dragons, but this wasn't Fishman and his karma; it wasn't Hobson babbling on about some "feeling." It was Marissa Clark, and of all of them, she was the one he'd always credited with the most sense. What if she was right? If she was getting at what he thought she was getting at, things were going to get way beyond spooky. 

He could only hold that thought for a few seconds. It was easier to worry about what would happen if she said whatever it was to the wrong people. They might not lock her up in a nuthouse, the way Fishman kept saying, but...well, he just didn't want her getting herself into too much trouble, that was all. 

"What?" Marissa's voice was heavy; her eyes were closed. 

"Huh?"

She turned her head toward him without lifting it from the back of the seat. "It seems like you want to say something."

Crumb chewed his lip and tapped the steering wheel for a couple of seconds before he said, "Well, first of all--look, don't let Nick get to you when she starts asking questions, okay? She's really frustrated by this case, and if it seems to come out when she's questioning you, it's not you she's frustrated with. No one is, no matter what they say or do. It's just, times like this, this is how most people get. Believe me, I've seen it all." Frustrated, helpless, grief-stricken, batshit crazy. 

"Why would I think--" Marissa sat up, eyebrows drawing together. "Crumb, what is this really all about?"

"They're trying to get all the facts."

"Facts? Before you said truth."

Crumb frowned. "Yeah, so?"

"Truth is bigger than facts," Marissa mumbled to the raindrops on the window.

"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess you're right." Crumb blinked and realized, as horns began to protest behind him, that the light had changed. All this philosophical mumbo-jumbo was a bit much for a guy to take. He really just wanted to help Marissa brace herself for all the questions she was about to be plagued with, both from Nick Piovani and, if his suspicions were right, from Lois and Bernie Hobson. "You can't let them get to you, no matter who it is, no matter what they say."

She was too quick, even exhausted; she caught what he hadn't said and sat up even straighter, blinking. "Who else will be there?"

"Maybe the Hobsons," he finally admitted. He pulled around a CTA bus, studiously checking all his mirrors before he added, "They've been hanging around the pier all day, and now probably the station. Lois is insistent that the police find out what happened. So is Bernie, but he's pretty much burned his bridges as far as getting anyone there to take him seriously."

"Oh. Okay." 

It wasn't the reaction he'd expected, just two words, laden with resignation, while she picked at the cuff of her sweater. Crumb chewed on his lip. Even as he pulled into the precinct's parking lot, he was more than half-tempted to turn the car around and take her home. But he'd promised Nick, and it was better to get it over with. Had to be. He eased into the only free parking place and thought, not for the first time, that nothing drove home his civilian status like having to take a visitor's spot. "We're here."

Marissa was already out of the car when he came around to the passenger's side, but she reached over and grabbed his hand, her aim as unerring as if she could see it, when he went to open the back door to let Spike out. 

"Thank you for taking care of all of us. I know it can't be easy."

Jaizus, saints, and angels, the ghost of Jimbo McNab, his first precinct captain, whispered in his ear. Just when he'd thought this couldn't get any harder. What'd she have to go thanking him for? Had to swallow hard before he could answer, and his attempt at a lighthearted tone wouldn't even fool the dog. "Trust me, kiddo, you're the easiest of the bunch."

He led her inside the station and up the stairs, crowding on the steps with Spike just ahead of them. The noise and bustle of the reception area smacked them in the face when they got to the top, and Marissa's fingers tightened around his arm. It really wasn't any worse than usual, Crumb thought. It just seemed that way. This was how a police station was supposed to be. In downtown Chicago, there were no off hours. Human misery, tragedy, and minor annoyances didn't follow a schedule, and there were plenty of humans in this corner of the world. 

Plenty of misery right now, too.

"Okay, we're gonna go through the lobby and the bullpen here, just straight ahead."

"I've been here before." 

Of course she had. He'd been here those times too, but always before it had been with Hobson. Except that one time, with that creep Marley. He cleared his throat, figuring that was the last thing he needed to remind her of. "Nick's got a conference room in the back where you can talk if this is too much."

"Let's get it over with." All the resignation was gone from her voice; all the steel was back. She squared her shoulders and started forward. 

Crumb steered her to Nick's desk, where the newly-appointed sergeant was busy with a pile of paperwork. She looked tired, Crumb noted, and her hair was windblown, escaping from its braid. No doubt she'd spent most of the morning out at the lake. After a stilted re-introduction, Crumb guided Marissa to a chair, then stepped aside to give Spike room to settle down. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he promised, with an awkward pat on Marissa's shoulder. He let his eyes meet Nick's, let them bore into her with an unspoken command, and tried not to see the way Marissa clenched her hands into fists in her lap and nodded her head, stiff as a doll. 

"All right," she whispered. 

He'd promised Nick an uninterrupted interview in exchange for her patience. By rights this should have happened yesterday, or even the night before; traumatic memories usually faded or warped quickly. Crumb had a feeling, though, that she wasn't going to forget anything that had happened on the pier. Nor would she change her story, even though it wasn't, he was sure, the whole story. He wondered if and when she'd tell him the rest of it.

He wondered how much of it he really wanted to know.

"All right. Let's start with what you and Mr. Hobson were doing down at the pier in the first place."

He ambled back into the bullpen, nodding at the waves and mock-salutes of his former colleagues as he passed. Most of them were too busy to be curious about his presence, but then Joe Bosonak spotted him and waved him over. "Hey, MZ, how's it going? Take a look at this stack of cases I gotta go through before the end of the month, can you believe this? How's retirement treatin' ya? What're ya doin' back here, anyways?"

Before Crumb could come up with even one answer, Joe was steering him toward the break room for coffee. Crumb let himself be led, figuring it was the least he could do for his old friend. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Patty had kicked the guy out again, and he was hanging around the precinct in his off hours trying to fight off the loneliness. 

By the time another cop took pity on Crumb and called Joe over to consult on a robbery investigation, thirty minutes had passed. At least, that was according to his watch. Maybe it was fast--way too fast, he thought, when he risked a glance to the back corner. From what he could see, Marissa hadn't moved. Her head bobbed a little when she spoke, but her shoulders were drawn back, her spine straight and stiff as a broomstick. Someone who didn't know her might call the pose standoffish, but Crumb knew there was more to it than that. She was afraid of cracking, of breaking down, especially among strangers and maybe at all; afraid of the full impact of what had happened hit her like the twenty-ton Mack truck it was. But somehow, sometime, she was gonna have to let it. He decided against going for more coffee, and settled in to watch, leaning one elbow against the reception desk. Spike looked back at him once, then resumed his alert position, head raised, ears pointed at Nick.

"Marion?"

Crumb swiveled on his heel and found Lois and Bernie Hobson right behind him. Yesterday when he'd seen them down at the lake, their car still cooling from their drive from Indiana, they'd been two separate people with two different, equally shocked and angry reactions. Today, he saw right away, they were a pair, a team, shoulders touching as they stood before him, each holding the other up.

"Hey." He met Lois's eyes, and they shared a sad, almost-smile. They'd been through something like this once before, he and Lois. He cringed as he recalled what he'd said to her then, about her son's propensity for getting out of trouble as easily as he got into it. About somebody or something watching out for him. Now her eyes asked why it hadn't been true two days ago, and he had no answer. He was dead weary of, as Marissa had called it, "Taking care of everyone."

Hobson Sr. shifted nervously from foot to foot, his gaze skittering away from Crumb. "We came back to see if there was any news."

"And Bernie wants to apologize for his explosion yesterday. Don't you?" Lois's eyes hardened as she fixed her husband with a firm glare. The first time he'd met Bernie Hobson, Crumb had pegged him as a blowhard, more likely to be Fishman's dad than that of the soft-spoken weirdo who showed up in his office every now and then. Now the guy fumbled his words, and Crumb thought he detected the origin of his kid's nervous stutter.

"Yeah. I--uh--you know--"

"I know." Crumb felt too sorry for the guy to let his awkward ways bother him. He and Evelyn had never had any kids, but he'd seen enough parents lose their children to know what the Hobsons were up against. "There's no news, except they're--well, you know about them calling off the search this afternoon." Before they could answer, he went on, "I'm here with Marissa." He indicated Nick's desk in the corner with a wave of his hand. "They didn't have her formal statement yet, and they needed her to close the case."

"My son is not a case." Even though her voice wobbled, Lois's eyes flashed brittle fire. 

Abashed, Crumb said, "No, of course he's not. I just meant they need closure for this part of the investigation."

"I want to hear what she has to say." Lois took a step toward the back of the room, but Bernie touched her shoulder. 

"Not yet."

Crumb rubbed the back of his neck while he thought things over. Now might not be the best time for this, but on the other hand, shielding Marissa as much as he had might have been a bad idea, too. All those books in the back seat of his car weren't going to bring Hobson back. She had to get through this, and so did the Hobsons. Maybe together they could find a way that Crumb hadn't been able to give them. "She's pretty tired, but maybe you could all--uh--"

Lois wasn't listening; she was staring past Crumb, her blue eyes as intense as lasers. "What is she telling them, Marion? What does she know?"

"She's gonna tell the police everything she can." Crumb's gaze met Lois's, and he felt a stab of guilt. She knew there was more to this than what the police could tell or be told, more than they could even begin to understand. But it wasn't his place to say what that "more" might be.

He was saved when he heard, somehow, all the way across the room, chairs scrape and dog tags jingle. He caught Nick's wave, nodded, and hurried over just in time to catch the standard, "Thanks, and if we have any more questions, we'll be in touch. And please," Nick added, deviating from the script with real humanity, "accept my condolences."

Marissa wasn't accepting anything of the kind, Crumb knew. But she nodded anyway. "Thank you. Good-bye, Sergeant."

"You okay?" Crumb touched her elbow as they both turned away from the desk. Three steps, then she reached belatedly for Spike's harness, blinking fiercely. 

"Yes. No. I don't--"

Bernie Hobson cleared his throat, right at Crumb's back. Damn, they'd followed him. He'd hoped to at least give her a warning. "Gary's parents are here," would have to suffice. "They want to talk to you." To anyone else, to Nick, for example, it would sound fairly innocuous. But he'd used Hobson's first name on purpose, and Marissa was too sharp not to notice that. Her eyes went round, but she didn't have a chance to say anything.

"Marissa, sweetheart--" 

Crumb stepped back out of the way, nearly tripping over Spike, as Marissa was enfolded in Lois's arms, a motherly embrace that she must have been waiting to bestow on someone for the past two days. Bernie nearly smothered the poor girl when his turn came, and she tottered back, both hands on the dog's harness for balance. 

"What happened out there?" Lois pleaded. "What happened to our son?"

Marissa ran her hands along the handle of Spike's harness, and she sounded as if she were strangling. "Lois, I don't--"

They all jumped when a detective emerged from his office, barking out commands. "Jacobs, Dineas, you're with me, NOW!"

"Let's at least get out of the way, huh?" Like an oversized sheep dog, Crumb herded the three--four, counting Spike--toward the lobby exit. They stopped just to the side of the door.

"How are you holding up?" Marissa asked.

"It's been a long day for all of us," Lois said. The lines around her eyes deepened. "But we need to talk."

Neither of the Hobsons seemed to notice how stiff Marissa's nod was, or how she pulled into herself, shrinking into her coat like a turtle. But Crumb had spent a lot of years watching people, and her reaction struck him as slightly desperate. But what was wrong with talking to Hobson's folks? He'd give dollars to doughnuts they knew about all that paper mumbo-jumbo, so surely she could tell them whatever it was she was holding back from him.

"Yeah, and I'm starvin'. Let's talk over dinner. I'm buying." Bernie wrapped his arm around Marissa's; tucked it in tight. She looked trapped, petrified. Still, Crumb was sure--pretty sure, anyway--that this would be good, and that if Hobson's parents needed to talk to her, she needed them just as much.

"I gotta go home," he announced. "You guys go ahead."

"But Crumb," Marissa protested, her voice rising, "All my books are in your car." That elicited puzzled looks from the Hobsons, and Crumb cut her off before she could say any more.

"You can get them tomorrow."

"I need them tonight."

If she'd been five years old, Crumb was pretty sure she would have stomped her foot. "Don't worry about it," he tried to assure her, "I'll take them to your house."

"Spike needs to be fed."

Heads swiveling back and forth, Bernie and Lois watched the exchange like a Ping-Pong match. 

"I'll take him home for ya."

"Chuck--"

"Fishman can take care of himself." 

Marissa opened her mouth to protest again, but Lois touched her shoulder.

"Marissa, please. It would mean so much to me, to us, if you would come."

Crumb felt as much as saw the fresh stab of sorrow in Lois's voice, in Marissa's wince. Those two definitely needed each other. Luckily, Marissa was too kind to say no to Hobson's mother. She finally nodded, disentangling herself from Bernie's grip long enough to hand Spike's harness and her keys to Crumb.

"Chuck has my spare key, but you can leave this one with Mrs. Gunderson. She lives on the right."

"Got it." Crumb thought about reaching out, just giving her hand a squeeze or something, but he hesitated, and the moment was gone.

Marissa sighed when Bernie took her arm again, and Crumb wondered how much longer she'd hold together. Maybe it would be better if she didn't.

Spike whined as the three walked out the door, then turned his huge brown eyes on Crumb.

"Aw, what are you lookin' at?" He scowled, digging through his pockets for the car keys. "Trust me," he muttered as they started down the stairs, "this is for the best."


	13. Chapter 13

_The drinking dens are spilling out  
There's staggering in the square  
There's lads and lasses falling about  
And a crackling in the air  
Down around the dungeon doors  
The shelters and the queues  
Everybody's looking for   
Somebody's arms to fall into_  
~ Mark Knopfler

Darkness fell as Gary and Fergus crossed the moor on a meandering but well-worn footpath. The grassy expanse was dotted with distant bonfires, brightening as the last rays of sunlight faded. By the time Gary stopped glancing over his shoulder for glimpses of Gwenyllan, the moon was rising again, full and orange and brilliant behind scattered clouds. Night birds and owls called, and a soft wind mingled the scents of the moor, the heather and the grasses that grew there, with the sharper tang of wood smoke.

They slowed as they climbed a rise, and just as he was about to ask how much longer it would take, they cleared the top of the mound and he could see for himself. Below them, set in a complex of outbuildings and gardens, was a large stone house. It wasn't quite the castle he had been expecting, but it wasn't anything to sneeze at, either. Its windows blazed with light, and the gardens around it were illuminated by torches. The main house and its gardens were surrounded by a high wall, also made of stone, and beyond it were smaller houses, barns, and fields, gathered in a rough semicircle around the manor. 

Fergus extended an arm. "Our feast awaits," he said with a grin. Gary gulped back his sense of foreboding and followed him down the hill.

A few minutes later, they passed through a gate guarded by two men who wore red leather tunics, each emblazoned with a golden hawk. They weren't about to let "two ruffians" into the yard, but when Gary showed them the ring Nessa had left with him they grudgingly let him pass, Fergus in tow. Crossing the yard, Gary could see and smell the horses, chickens, and dogs that roamed freely through the small front garden and the more bedraggled, dusty areas near the barns.

At the doors of the Great House, as Fergus called it, more guards stood watch; they reeked of alcohol, and Gary wondered just how close their watch could be. They didn't give Gary and Fergus a second glance; they were far more interested in the knot of elaborately-dressed young women whispering on a stone bench in the garden.

The doorway opened to a huge room filled with light and people and smoke, a sharp contrast to the night air and quiet of the moor. Gary blinked and swayed as he tried to adjust. The walls were hung with tapestries, bright embroideries of ladies and unicorns and hunting scenes. Red banners emblazoned with the same golden hawk as the guards had on their uniforms hung from the rafters. The hawk's pose, its talons outstretched as it landed for an unseen kill, set Gary's nerves on edge, as did the scene below the banners.

Dozens of people sat at long tables that marched down the middle of the room, from one huge fireplace to another, and more guests mingled in the empty spaces beyond. Ladies swept from table to table in swirls of silk and velvet, colors as bright and majestic as peacocks. Clouds of heavy, cloying perfume assailed Gary's nostrils, and smoke from the fires threw out a faint haze that dimmed the colors and faces that were farthest from him. Jewelry of every description hung from necks, ears, arms, even hair, and sparkled in the light of the rush torches that lined the walls. At one of the hearths, a group of three musicians tuned their instruments, and Fergus inclined his head in their direction. "Duty calls. Alert me if you need any help."

"Well, wait, what am I supposed to do?" He knew he was woefully underdressed. He had no gold jewelry, no feathered hat, no velvet tunic. He wasn't sure he could lose himself in this crowd even if he did keep his mouth shut.

"Just as we discussed on the trip here, friend." Fergus gave him a cursory pat on the back. "Smile, keep a goblet in your hand, and say as little as possible. If a lady asks you to dance, just follow the crowd." 

Right. That's what Marcia always used to say when she'd dragged him out to go dancing. "Just follow the crowd, Gary; watch and do what everyone does." She'd never been able to understand why a talented athlete couldn't pick up a simple waltz or the macarena, but though he'd tried, his body had always refused to follow the steps. "Are you crazy? I can't--"

"Oh, there is Cecily!" Fergus had honed in on Freckles, who was offering a tray of tankards to the musicians at the hearth. Ignoring Gary's protest, he hurried off across the room.

Sighing, Gary ventured a few more steps into the room. A bubble of silence settled around him, a watchful quiet that was an oasis, if not a refuge, in the middle of the crowded hall. One or two people stared at him, gauging him up and down the same way Nessa had. Probably wondering if he was good enough for them. Others studiously avoided him, as if his presence troubled them and ignoring it would get rid of the problem. Gary nodded when a young man who was frowning in his direction didn't look away fast enough to avoid direct eye contact, but the velvet-capped head quickly swiveled and bent low to whisper something to his female companion. She trilled with laughter as they moved away. This was starting to feel like a junior high dance. 

After all that, Nessa's sudden voice in his ear, and her arm on his elbow, didn't bother him as much as they might have. "Gary, what a delightful surprise! I was not sure if you would honor us with your presence tonight or not."

Was his presence really an honor, or just an annoyance? He gave his head the merest shake and managed, "It's my honor to be here, Lady Nessa." Then he swept a bow that would have crinkled Morgelyn's face into a scowl, and forced a smile onto his own. "Your home is very impressive."

So was her get-up, Gary thought: a gold-trimmed dress of deep purple silk, and a headpiece of the same fabric with a filmy veil falling from its twin, stiff points. The violet fabric shimmered in the torchlight, and the low, tight bodice pushed her cleavage nearly up to her chin, with a gold and amethyst necklace between. He gulped as he realized that Nessa had caught him looking at the display, and was now smiling at him coolly, as if this gave her some sort of advantage. Probably, with a lot of guys, it did. 

"Thank you," she said with a regal nod. Then she held out a hand and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Oh! The--uh--your ring--" Gary took it from his pouch and was about to place it in Nessa's palm, but she turned her hand over and extended her first finger. Forcing his smile even wider, as if this was just what he'd always wanted to do, he slid the ring over her knuckles. Nessa held her hand up; the light from the rush torches caught in the ruby and cast a warm glow over her face. How many times had she practiced that move?

"A gift from my late husband. It would pain me to lose it, but you seem worth the risk." 

Every word she said was layered with meaning that Gary didn't understand; he was going to have to work to keep up with this little game, whatever it was. If he didn't figure it out soon, all this was going to be a waste of time. Since he was taller than most of the crowd, he was able to see Fergus, seated on the flagstones near the hearth and deep in conversation with Freck--Cecily. Her simple dress, nearly as low-cut as Nessa's, must have given the bard a heck of a view, especially if the lewd grin plastered on his face was any indication. Nope, Fergus definitely wouldn't think this was a waste of time.

Nessa squeezed his arm, drawing Gary's attention back to herself. "You must be starved after such a long walk. Let me find you a seat and some charming company, so that you may ease your appetite." She was two steps ahead of Gary before she finished speaking, leaving him to trail in her wake.

"I--I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he faltered in a whisper. He was still getting strange looks from the party crowd, though they all left a good amount of room for their formidable hostess to get through. It was like Moses and the Red Sea. "I don't really fit in."

"Nonsense!" Nessa declared, throwing her voice to the surrounding press of nobles. "You are my guest, and you will be treated with respect." Her command was as intractable as the seasons; the gawkers smiled and resumed their chatter. Her Ladyship had spoken, and it seemed there would be no dissenters. "Sit here, Gary, and eat your fill. Please," she added, as if she knew about the plan his frantic, regretful brain was hatching, "do not sneak off as soon as I have gone. I would love to further our acquaintance, once my duties as hostess are complete."

"I won't leave," he said, and wondered how he was going to be able to keep his promise to Morgelyn if he couldn't see the moon set. It would probably come about the same time his frozen smile cracked his face open. "I'd like to get to know you better, too."

With a curve of her lips as acknowledgment, Nessa pointed to one of the benches and hurried off through the crowd. He could hear her exclamations of welcome and delight even when she was nothing more than a flash of purple in the press of the crowd. Rubbing his face to let the muscles relax, the smile unfreeze, Gary climbed awkwardly over the bench and slid into place just as the musicians began to play.

He'd never thought much about the phrase "tables groaning with food", but now he saw that it could be literally true. The food at this table alone would have been enough to feed the entire village of Gwenyllan for a week. A huge carcass--a deer, maybe?--held court in the center of the broad table, and guests were happily pulling off chunks of it with knives and their bare fingers. A turkey the size of Spike, piles of fruits and sweets, dozens of loaves of bread, and trenchers of something that looked like stew filled the remainder of the sturdy oaken tabletop, and it really did seem to sag under the weight. Certainly the benches were groaning, or at least creaking, as the feasters scrunched together, sharing plates and trenchers and even goblets. Their voices were loud and the air was warm and sensuous, spice-scented. Truth be told, it all made Gary feel queasy and confused, and he wasn't sure he could eat.

It wasn't as if he'd had a clear head to begin with. Too much ale, which these people drank like water, had entered his bloodstream that day, pressed on him by friendly hands, especially Fergus's. Then a long walk across the moor, topped off with this strange, hazy scene--no wonder all the disorientation was catching up with him. He was adrift in a world he didn't understand: not its social maneuvering, not its pungent odors, not its food.

"Oh, you must try the jellied eel!"

Gary winced at the squeaky voice of the young woman at his side and the sight of the jiggling mass in the bowl she offered him. Shaking his head with a sheepish grin, he reached for the goblet an unseen servant had plopped down at his place. It held wine, as sweet as Kool-Aid but heavier, and far smoother than the ale he'd been drinking all day. By the time he'd worked his way through the first glass, a servant was at his elbow offering more, and the young woman's chatter wasn't quite so bothersome. 

"Is this not the most wonderful party? Lady Nessa always has the best food at her feasts, and of course the most interesting people. You must be new to this part of the country. Have you been here long? My father says that I am almost of an age to marry, but I will not wed a country simpleton. I wish to marry a lord, or at least a duke. Are you a duke? I met a duke from London once. He was _wonderful_ , so charming and refined. Have you ever met a duke?"

She didn't even leave Gary time to answer her questions, so he just tried to nod or shake his head when it was appropriate, and took samples of a couple of the dishes she passed him: fruit, bread, and even some fish, but not the eel. Besides, he told himself as he nodded absently at the young woman's description of another feast--or maybe it was a ball--he wasn't here to eat. 

"More mead, good sir?" The chatterbox poured more of the honey-colored wine into his goblet. She watched him expectantly until he took a drink. "Lady Nessa has hers made from her very own honey bees. Can you imagine such richness?"

"No," Gary said honestly, looking down the table at the piles of food. "I really can't." 

The musicians had shifted from quiet, lingering tunes to something with a beat, and Gary's neighbor was telling him with great excitement that the other half of the hall had been set aside for dancing once everyone grew tired of food. The girls around him shot hopeful looks in his direction. He managed a weak smile, which got them all giggling like a gaggle of tipsy geese. The high, affected voices and the smoky atmosphere, the surrealism of the entire scene, pushed Gary into autopilot mode. He let his mind churn on another level while everything swirled around him. 

What had he thought he was going to be able to do in a place like this?, he mused, taking another swig of the wine. He'd had some vague notion of spying, some idea that he could figure out what Nessa was up to, especially when she'd seemed so interested in that story about, among other things, the Dragon's Eye. Nodding absently at the description of a hunt that the young man across the table was using to regale the ladies, Gary decided that he wasn't going to find out anything here. He needed to get up and move, not stay trapped with a bunch of strangers until Nessa decided she wanted to talk to him. So, he needed to get on with it and act like a spy. He wondered what would James Bond would have done, besides seduce half the girls at the table. 

Well, for one thing, Bond would never have found himself thrown six hundred years backward, but even if he had, he wouldn't sit here listening to the great-to-the-nth-power grandmothers of the Spice Girls twitter on about fox hunts and dances. He'd walk around like he owned the place and overhear all the right conversations with his super-secret techno-gadgets, and he wouldn't be thrown by a few differences in fashion or food. He'd act like he belonged, like he expected to find the answers, and he would. Magnum, P.I. would have done the same. Even David Addison would have made an attempt.

It all came down, Gary decided, to swagger. They all had it, all those macho spies. 

He could do swagger. 

Planting both palms on the large wooden table, he grinned at the woman sitting to his right and pushed himself up--

\--only to plop back down when the entire hall spun around him in a swirl of smoke and color and music and laughter. 

He picked up the bejeweled goblet and scowled into it. What was in this stuff, anyway? Or maybe a better question was, how much of it had he had? The woman at his elbow leaned her head against his shoulder. "Cozy," she mumbled, and Gary wondered if this had been Nessa's intention all along, to get him drunk, keep him occupied and out of the way. Well, heck, a pretty woman and a couple of martinis had never stopped James Bond. Slowed him down, barely, but that was about it. 

More cautious this time, Gary pushed the coifed head off his shoulder; she hiccupped and giggled and went back to her jellied eel. He managed to swing one leg over the bench as he turned to face the rest of the room, then the other, and he pushed off from the table, hands out to his sides to still the spinning room. This was what came from mixing his drinks, he could hear Chuck saying. Too much ale this afternoon, and now the mead, when he was used to a beer or maybe two after running around Chicago all day. It wasn't a great combination. And that stuff was a heck of a lot stronger than it tasted.

He took a few tentative steps away from the rows of tables, and looked back to the crowd of guests, swimming in an ocean of reds, blues, greens, and yellows--and one splotch of royal purple at the head table. Nessa and a few others were laughing, talking, drinking the stuff in the goblets as liberally as if it were water. She caught Gary's eye, raised her glass and her arched eyebrows, and smiled; he managed to wave back, hoping the slouch and the casual hand motion he affected would have been worthy of Sean Connery, or at least Roger Moore. Licking her lips, Nessa mouthed a word that looked like, "Soon," and Gary gulped in spite of himself. 

Either he was doing better at this swagger thing than he imagined, or, more likely, the others around him were equally soused, because no one was staring at him now. He made his way around the room, nodding, smiling, and utterly failing to engage anyone in conversation. Finally, a loud clang and a familiar, "Excuse me," from somewhere behind him caused him to spin around, and he saw Fergus pick up a wooden harp from the floor where he'd dropped it. Apparently Gary wasn't the only one who'd overestimated his own stamina. 

Nessa's seat at the head table was now in his direct line of sight. She crooked a finger toward one of the uniformed guards behind her, and he bent over to hear her whispered instructions. The pair lifted their heads together and looked right at Gary, then fell back into their conversation. Nessa was being adamant about something, but for the life of him, Gary couldn't tell what was going on. He took a couple steps toward the musicians, intending to at least consult with Fergus, but at some signal he didn't see, the benches at the rows of tables behind him pushed back simultaneously, and the revelers flooded the dance floor. Still dizzy, he was carried along by the eddies of over-perfumed, over-dressed lords and ladies, until his shoulder was pushed into one of the wooden beams that held up the roof of the Great Hall, and there he stopped, grateful for the support. 

"Ah, 'oo have we ici?" cooed a high-pitched voice at his elbow. he looked down to see a young woman with dancing blue eyes, her unruly dark curls pinned up and studded with jewels. 

"Hi--uh, good evening, my lady," he began, fishing for the greeting that Fergus had taught him. He forced a stiff half-bow. "My name is--"

"Gary!" The crowd parted for Nessa, and she placed a possessive hand on his elbow. It was the same spot Marissa latched onto whenever they were walking together, but Nessa's touch wasn't like Marissa's at all. He gulped, tried to control the unsummoned thought and his first reaction, which was to pull away from her. He reminded himself that swagger was supposed to be the order of the day, and pasted on another smile. 

Some of the light had gone out of Nessa's ice grey eyes; the open friendliness that had marked their first encounters was gone. She had swagger of her own, with some to spare, and Gary knew his only hope lay in letting her believe that he believed everything she said. Like in football, when the kicking team was probably going to fake a punt. The defense might know it was coming, but they lined up for the play they were supposed to think was coming and then tried to break up the fake from there. Like that one time when Hickory had played West Lafayette in the semi-finals. Or was that the game with Valparaiso?

He gave his head a fierce shake, then had to blink away the dark spots. That wine was really doing a number on him. Luckily, Nessa didn't seem to notice his mental wanderings.

"I see you have met Elaine," she said, turning a smirk on the young woman. "Her father is a--what is it, dear? A miller?" 

Elaine's face turned red. "My father is the Duke of Islingdore," she said, her voice even squeakier. She'd lost the French accent.

"Ah, that is correct. It was your mother's father who was a commoner, was it not?" 

Eyes flashing with fury, Elaine drew her lips together and nodded once. 

"Oh, look over there," Nessa continued, pointing across the room. "The French minister's son. Why don't you go practice your language lessons on him, dear?"

Ducking her head at Gary, helpless frustration in her eyes, Elaine moved off through the crowd, most of whom were forming small circles as the music changed yet again, into some sort of peppy dance tune. Fergus was singing, but Gary couldn't make out the words. Over heads Gary saw Elaine turn her half-hearted smile on a pimple-faced boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen years old.

"Now that distractions are taken care of--" Nessa looked him right in the eye, and Gary had to resist the urge to squirm under her calculating stare. "Tell me what is on your mind. I know you did not come here to mingle with the likes of Elaine." She flashed a smile that showed all her teeth. "Tell me what you think of my party, Gary Hobson."

It was now or never. He threw himself into the role she expected him to play. "I'm thinking that you look very lovely in that dress, Lady Nessa. And that I would like to get to know you better."

"A very chivalrous speech." Nessa snapped her fingers, and a servant appeared at her side with a tray laden with jewel-encrusted gold goblets. She handed one to Gary and took another for herself. Rings glittering from every finger, she raised the cup and touched it to Gary's. "To learning the truth."

"To the truth," Gary said, with more fervency than swagger should have allowed. He figured he needed to be polite, so he drank more mead from his own goblet as Nessa watched him over the rim of hers. Before he knew it, he'd drained the cup, listening while Nessa droned out the roll of her social peers and inferiors, pointing to each and dropping comments about names, titles, and land--especially land. They stood on the edge of the crowd, watching the dancers and nodding to the minglers who passed by and complimented Nessa on her party.

"What about your land?" Gary asked as a servant replaced his empty goblet with a full one. The dancing paused, again at some signal Gary couldn't make out, and Nessa smiled as the crowd broke into new groups. Several of the men in velvet tunics were pushing through the crowd, honing in on the spot where Nessa stood. 

"It is difficult to breathe in here, do you not agree?" With a fluid sweep of purple silk, Nessa walked away from Gary, heading for an open door at the far corner of the room. She checked back over her shoulder to make sure he followed, nodding politely but dismissively at those who spoke to her.

It just so happened that they passed the corner where Fergus sat with the rest of the musicians, surrounded by Cecily and a group of young ladies, some in servants' clothing, some more richly dressed. Despite the break in the dancing, Fergus was strumming absently on his harp, but when he saw Gary following Nessa, the tune changed and he started to sing, flashing Gary a wicked grin.

"Out came a dragon from her den,   
fa la lonky down dilly;  
Who'd killed God knows how many men,   
fa la lonky down dilly."

The glare Gary shot his way had no effect on Fergus, whose grin spread even wider as he sang.

"When she saw Sir Eglamore  
You should have heard that dragon roar..."

"You're a big help," Gary muttered. The "fa la las" followed him out the doors and into the cool night air.   


* * *

  
_Round here we talk just like lions  
But we sacrifice like lambs_  
~ Adam Duritz

Crumb set a bowl of dog food on Marissa's kitchen floor and got out of the way. Spike's tail wagged gratefully, but Crumb didn't want to be in the way of a hungry German Shepherd. He was wiping his hands on a light blue towel when the phone rang. At first, he thought he'd just ignore it. Could be a friend, a relative, or a telemarketer, and was it really his place to answer Marissa's phone? But then he remembered the frantic blinking the answering machine had been doing out in the foyer; it was already overloaded. He picked up the call in the kitchen, on the off chance that it might be Marissa herself, or news about Hobson.

It wasn't.

There was a moment of stunned silence after Crumb snapped, "Clark residence."

"Cr-Crumb? Ish that you?"

"No, Fishbrain. It's Spike." 

"That's--that'sh pretty funny. Spike. Here, doggie..."

If Fishman had been younger, blonde, and female, he would have been giggling like a Barbie with a stuck voice box. As it was, his chortling was more than a little hysterical. In the background, Crumb could hear obnoxious rock music and raucous voices. Sounded a lot like a bar. Based on Fishman's slurred consonants, he guessed that the guy must have been there quite a while, finishing what he'd tried to start at McGinty's the day before. 

"Where the hell are you?" Crumb asked, resigned to being the clean-up crew. He rubbed an irritated hand over the back of his neck. There were knots back there that had been missing since his retirement. 

"I've been drinking," Fishman confessed.

Crumb rolled his eyes. "Oh, do tell."

"I need a ride home."

"So you called Marissa?"

More hysterical laughter from Fishman dissolved into a coughing fit, then: "Hey, Crumb, you ought to come down here and do stand up. I'm sure they have open mike night sometimes--or, I know! I could put you on my new show. We're gonna need some comic relief."

The little guy got braver when he'd had too much to drink. "I'm sure you can handle that on your own," Crumb said dryly. "So, what, you need a ride?"

"The bartender took my keys..." Fishman trailed off, some of his manic glee fading. "I couldn't remember." 

Crumb cringed at the noisy slurp that followed this bit of news. Man, he hoped nobody was wasting good liquor on Fishman. The guy probably didn't have any taste buds left. "Couldn't remember what? How to drive? Where you parked your car? Your name?"

"Hey, I reshemble that remark." Another slurp. "Marissa's address. I couldn't rememb--they tried to call a ta--a tax--a cab, but I couldn't tell them where I wanted to go."

He heaved a sigh from the bottom of his flat feet. This was worse than baby-sitting a three-ring circus. But maybe it was a good thing that he'd been here, and not Marissa. This would have upset the hell out of her. He might have made a mistake, pushing her and Fishman together with no Hobson to referee. That wasn't a job Crumb wanted by any means, not full time. Do that and he might end up with a mystic tingle of his own.

Or maybe he was just trying to rationalize what he'd done, pushing her off on the Hobsons like that. Maybe it was guilt that led him to say what he did next.

"Stay put, Fishman. Give the phone to the bartender. I'll come get you."

After enduring Fishman's blubbered thanks, he talked to the bartender. "Look, I'm gonna come take that guy off your hands. Tell me where I'm going." When he heard, he shook his head. Fishman would be lucky to find his spiffy rental car intact tomorrow morning. Considering the little guy's big mouth, he was lucky to still be in one piece himself, but the night was young. 

"Okay, I'll be there in twenty, thirty minutes. And look, I'm a cop." He left off the 'ex' part. "I want you to hold on to this guy's keys and keep him right where he is 'til I get there, even if you have to give him more to drink. Just make sure he keeps his mouth shut. Anything happens to him, we can have a vice team down there before you can say, 'illegal activity', you got it?"

The bartender snorted. "What is this guy, some kinda narc?"

"Worse," Crumb told him. "He's a television producer."  


* * *

  
_Candles in us  
saved for something  
like this...  
we move by touch  
melt and  
are our own roof  
burning  
against   
the dark  
rain_  
~ Lyn Lifshin

By the time "Hi-My-Name-Is-Dorian-and-I'll-Be-Your-Waiter-Tonight" brought their drinks, Marissa was glad to let Bernie order for her. She'd had enough of questions. There had been too many that day for which she'd had no answers, or answers that wouldn't be believed. It wouldn't be fair, she decided as she took a sip of her Chianti and settled back into the soft, upholstered booth, to make Dorian the first waiter in the history of Cielo's to induce a breakdown in a customer by asking if she wanted a house or Caesar salad. It didn't matter.

None of it mattered. 

Only Gary mattered, if she could only hold on. She should have been trying to find him. Instead, she was about to have--what was Bernie ordering, anyway? She had no idea; it was too hard to focus on his voice as he stumbled through the order in broken Italian. 

The cab ride over had been one long interrogation. On top of her session with Sergeant Piovani, which had covered exactly the same information, it had been too much. It shouldn't have been. It should have been just another round. But these were Gary's parents, and everything they felt was leaking through the cracks in their armor and into her own. Bewildered anger, hopeless grief, Bernie's fumbling attempts at cheering Lois up, wave after wave of emotion that was bound to crack Marissa apart, surely as ice cracked rock. 

She tried concentrating on her surroundings instead. The wall at the end of the booth was brick; she'd brushed it with her hand when she set her bag on the seat next to her. The fabric that covered the seat cushion was soft--probably not velvet, but something with a slight pile to it. She could tell by the whir of ceiling fans and the way sound echoed that the ceilings here were high, like McGinty's, and it didn't seem to be too crowded. Voices and clinking china were muted by linen tablecloths and deep, private booths. The wine glasses were real crystal. This didn't strike Marissa as Bernie Hobson's kind of restaurant. He seemed more like a steak house kind of guy, not unlike her own father, and she knew this choice was a concession--to her, perhaps, but more likely to Lois. This was definitely a Lois kind of place.

She was startled out of her speculation when Dorian asked in that loud voice some people used on her, as if she were deaf instead of blind, "So, Miss, what'll it be?"

Shaking her head, she tried to focus. "The house dressing is fine."

"On your baked potato?" His chuckle died when no one joined him.

"Oh." Marissa folded her hands in her lap, bit back a snarky comment about the volume of his voice. "Sour cream."

Dorian's tongue clicked against his teeth, and he waited half a heartbeat before saying brightly, "Right. Okay. I'll be out in a minute with your appetizer."

Fingering the overstitched edges of her napkin, which was still wrapped around her silverware, Marissa wished for a safe topic of conversation. Or maybe a simple, handy, two-alarm fire to clear out the restaurant and force them all home.

"This is a nice place," Lois said. "Gary brought me here once, when we were celebrating my birthday." She sighed. "That was when he was still married to Marcia."

The lump that had been lodged in Marissa's throat since Gary had disappeared started to grow again. Still, she managed to answer. "He's always liked this place. He told me their shrimp scampi's good."

"Yeah, Gar loved anything with garlic, even when he was a kid. The first time he made spaghetti, he put a whole head of it in the sauce instead of one clove."

Lois cut through Bernie's rambling. "Marissa, you know we need to talk about this."

Even though distance wouldn't protect her, Marissa pulled away, pressing her back into the thick booth. "I don't know what else there is to say." 

"There has to be more. We want to understand. What's the reason for all this?"

"The reason?" she echoed, like a mindless parrot. How many times had she told Gary there was a reason for everything?

"You were there when it happened. There has to be something." The flat, nasal vowels of Lois's Indiana accent scraped like nails against her raw nerves. She opened her mouth, but Bernie beat her to it.

"I'll tell you the reason. It's 'cause life's not fair. I've always said that."

"It isn't fair," she repeated softly, remembering her own words that day on the pier, and then Crumb's. "It never is."

"I won't accept that. What about the paper, Marissa? I understand that you couldn't tell the police, but surely you can tell us. Please."

"There was nothing in the paper." Marissa was grateful for that one mercy, that one truth she could tell them without any shade of hidden meaning. "This had nothing to do with any story Gary saw in the Sun-Times."

"That can't be true, he can't have just fallen in the lake. It doesn't make any sense!" A muffled thump; at her fingertips, Marissa's bundle of silverware jumped. She crossed both arms tight across her chest.

"Hey, Lo, calm down."

"I don't want to calm down. Don't you want to know why our son died? Don't either of you care?"

Shaking under the sheer force of Lois's determination, Marissa brought one hand up to cover her mouth. She couldn't take this much longer. Of course she cared. She cared so much that it was ripping her apart.

"Well, sure, hon, of course I do," Bernie tried to assure her, "but Marissa isn't--"

"Okay! Got your salads and toasted ravioli all ready for you. I brought out the breadsticks, too." Dorian's too-chipper voice was like a scratch across a vinyl LP, and they all fell silent as he set plates on the table. Marissa drew in one deep breath, then another, regaining what was left of her composure. 

She didn't know which way to turn, nor how much to tell them. It wasn't fair to push them farther than they'd be able to go. She'd told Chuck, told Crumb, that she wouldn't; promised herself that she wouldn't upset anyone again. But what about _her_ feelings and limits? It had been hard enough dealing with Josh Gardner's barely-contained curiosity, and with Sergeant Piovani's insistence that she must have missed something, or misheard something; harder still to put up with this. Dozens of voices rattled around in her head, but not the one she missed the most.

She tried concentrating on her breathing, but the concrete things around her, the table, the voices, even her own hands, gripping the edge of the cushioned bench, seemed to fade into the background. Without Spike's bulk pressed up against her, grounding her, she was untethered, floating away from this danse macabre. Now it seemed that her arm had to stretch clear across the room to pick up her fork and stab spinach and croutons, and that the tastes of parmesan and spinach and garlic were from some distant memory. Another Marissa, perhaps, had taken a bite of her salad and chewed it into infinitesimal bits so she could force it past the lump in her throat, and was listening to the silence across the table, groping for some way to reach Lois and Bernie without upsetting them even more. Another Marissa reached into her bag and pulled out the scrying glass, setting it on the table after she'd checked for a clear spot. It was a testing of the waters, just to see if they'd respond. If they did, then all bets were off. She listened to her own voice, somewhere down below. 

"There is this. A girl brought it to Gary earlier in the day--that day--and he was holding it when he fell in the lake."

"Hey, would you look at that?" Bernie sounded impressed, and her heart jumped, but prematurely. "Gettin' presents from the ladies, just like his old man." For a moment, he sounded like Bernie had always sounded, full of bravado and unabashed pride in his son. But there was no real curiosity about the object itself. 

Lois sighed again. "Marissa, we know about that crystal ball. The police told us they found it, and they said it couldn't have been important. It's very nice, dear, but we're more interested in what happened to Gary." Lois's voice was acrid as the cigarette smoke that drifted over from the bar. "We understood Gary could die saving people. But not something like this. Wasn't the paper supposed to protect him? Why didn't he know this would happen?"

"And besides," Bernie added, "what good's a snow globe without snow? Or little plastic reindeer?"

"Bernie, stop. Now, Marissa, please--"

"But I think this might have--" She touched the glass, and waited, but this time nothing happened, no tingle under her fingers, no reaction from the Hobsons. "He was holding it, and he said it looked different."

"Oh, Sergeant Piovani explained that." Lois patted Marissa's arm, as if she were a deluded child. "You don't understand how light can change the way something like this will look out in the sunshine. It's the paper that's important, and we all know it. What was there, Marissa? What did Gary see?"

They'd missed it completely. Not even a spark of interest, of hope, had flared across the table. In her disappointment, Marissa fumbled with an answer. "Maybe the article just wasn't there."

"I don't believe that!" All the silverware jumped again.

"He could have overlooked it," Marissa offered, even though she knew that wasn't true. "Maybe it didn't appear in the paper at all, until just before Gary fell in the lake." Until you told him to take the globe back, whispered a nasty, insidious voice in her head. "Maybe he didn't see it," she finished weakly.

"Or maybe you didn't." Bernie was serious now.

Of course she hadn't, but he was getting at something else. "What do you mean?"

"We were wondering if maybe Gar was trying to save you," said Bernie, "and didn't tell you that you were in the paper because he didn't want to scare you."

The lump in Marissa's throat exploded into her chest. She shook her head, afraid it would roll right off her shoulders, and reached for Spike before she remembered that he wasn't there. "Honestly, Lois, Bernie, I don't--I don't think--Gary never said that anything like that was about to happen." 

"Of course he didn't. Don't you get it? That's the whole point!" Bernie sounded excited, albeit more hysterical than usual.

"Isn't it at least possible?" Lois pressed. 

It was so much like what Chuck had thought. For a moment, Marissa let herself believe that they could be right. She tried to cover the crumbling of her composure by reaching for her meal, but she couldn't manage a forkful of salad, and picked up one of the breadsticks Dorian had doled out to her plate instead. She hadn't eaten all day. Hence the shaking. Tearing off one end, she brought it to her mouth and nearly suffocated trying to chew and swallow it. 

"We think--Bernie and I--that something like that must have happened," Lois went on, relentless as time. "It must have. If it wasn't you, Marissa, then it must have been someone else, and you just didn't see it, because--well, because you couldn't see it."

"But there was nothing." Marissa gulped; her hands curled around the edge of the table. This couldn't be right. She had gone out to him. She'd been in no danger, nowhere near the edge of the pier, Spike had seen to that. "We were just talking."

"About what?"

"About the paper, about our friendship."

"There must have been more. Think, Marissa."

She could feel her jaw tightening. These people, who had raised the best-hearted guy she'd ever met, were talking to her as if she were a child, or stupid, or both. She'd forgotten how much it had bothered her the last time, when Gary was missing and they'd assumed that the best she could do for him was to sit around and answer the phone. But she couldn't find it in her heart to be angry with them now. Not more than a tiny bit, anyway. They were speaking out of their own defeat and sorrow, their misplaced determination.

Or maybe it was hers that was misplaced.

"I suppose anything is possible," she finally whispered. The outrush of air from Lois was like the cracking of a dam, and it sent Marissa away, back outside the scene, practically outside her own body, out to a safe distance. 

"Now, I want you to try to remember everything that happened in the park that day. There must be something, there has to be."

"There's nothing else." One hand fell limply into her lap. Her voice was rising above the murmurs, above the soft whir of the overhead fans, above discretion. It was hard, so hard, to make herself heard from such a great distance. She touched the globe in front of her, willing one of them to pick up on the clue. "Don't you believe me?" 

Didn't anyone? 

"Of course we believe you, Marissa." It was a good thing Bernie was across the table, because he sounded as if he was ready to pat her on the head. "We just want to know if there's anything else, anything important, that you might have forgotten."

Everything that was important was right there in front of them, and they couldn't see it. And she couldn't tell them. What if she was wrong? What would it do to them if she could convince them, and then Gary didn't ever come back? God help her, she didn't know what to think.

"Please, Marissa," Lois choked out. "We just want to bring our boy home."

Defeated, wondering why in the world she'd hoped they'd respond some other way, Marissa pulled the scrying glass off the table, cradling it for only a moment, a moment that no one else remarked on, before placing it back in her bag. "That's what I want, too."

She reached for her wine glass, but Lois intercepted her hand and squeezed it tight. Marissa was shocked when the action didn't send every piece of her spinning in a thousand different directions. She wondered if that meant that she'd given them what they needed, or if they'd decided that she never would. Either way, she wondered if they would ever recover. "If only things had been different," Lois murmured. Marissa could only nod as she pulled her hand free.

She knew that the Hobsons weren't blaming her, but she also knew exactly what Lois meant, and she wasn't that far off base.

If only she'd reminded Gary to look at the paper--

If only she'd been more adamant in warning him about the odd feeling she'd had about Kelyn Gillespie--

If only--then Gary wouldn't be--

"No."

"Marissa?"

She wrapped her hand around her water glass, slippery and cool with condensation. "We were just walking along the pier. That's all it was. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I can't--that no one can find him."

For the second time that day, her eyes were about to brim over. She tried to hide it by taking a huge gulp of ice water, and the cold jolted her back to the present moment like a slap across the face. She thought about what had happened in the archaeology lab that morning, and let her hope and faith settle around that. She would find Gary. She would. 

"Marissa, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that we really want to know what happened."

"I do too." She drew in a deep breath, and, more composed, tried to set her mind to the role she had to play now. Not much longer, surely it couldn't be that much longer. 

The main course came, and they fell into silence. Marissa ate numbly, like an automaton, resisting the temptation to gulp her wine, grounding herself by taking tiny sips and trying to taste the overtones, the oak and fruit that Chuck always went on about when he wanted to impress some woman. All she could taste was warmth, bitter mingled with sweet, and it burned down her throat like fire. Only the thought of home, of her dog, of the books waiting for her, enabled her to swallow the few bites of chicken that she chewed so carefully.

After what seemed like an ocean of silence, Dorian appeared with dessert. Marissa tapped the wedge she found on her plate, and it sprang back. "You know," she said, hoping her voice was steadier than the last time she'd spoken, "Gary never says that much about his childhood. Can you tell me what he was like when he was younger?" It was a question she'd heard her grandmother ask, in hospitals and at wakes; it was a way of pulling people out of the present grief and into the safe, warm haven of the past, where all the rough edges had been lived through and blurred, sanded away by time. 

"Well, for one thing, he was always trying to be just like his old man," Bernie said proudly. "Once, when he was eleven, I went on a fishing trip to Michigan with my buddies, and Gar climbed on his bike and tried to follow us."

"No, that was when he was nine, don't you remember? It was the same year he had Mrs. Lawson for third grade."

Like the sweetness of the past, the liquor-soaked layers of tiramisu soothed Marissa's nerves as they slid down her throat. She settled back into the booth, allowing small bites of the cake to dissolve in her mouth before she swallowed. Bernie and Lois were off to the races, and they only required occasional prompting to maintain their litany. Time dissolved, became liquid; the present touched the past, and became future once more.

Where had that thought come from? 

In the end, she didn't eat any more of the dessert than she had of the dinner. 

In the end, even with the Hobsons calmed down, all she really wanted was to go home.


	14. Chapter 14

_Looks like something's coming  
Looks like there's gonna be a storm  
Looks like everyone's running  
Looks like everyone's torn_  
~ Tara MacLean

"It will be much more pleasant and private to speak out here." Nessa swept through a large set of open doors, directly opposite the front entrance. Gary followed her onto a torchlit stone terrace which overlooked a sunken garden. The terrace was enclosed on either side by the wings of the manor house, and a short stone wall separated it from the garden beyond. Like the smaller garden out front, this one had narrow paths defined by lines and knots of shrubbery, black shapes looming in the clear moonlight. Couples walked through it hand in hand, and a murmur of low voices and laughter drifted through the air.

One of those couples came back onto the patio through a break in the wall between two stone pillars. The woman was adjusting her headdress, and they studiously avoided looking at Nessa as they hurried past. She waited until they'd gone inside before speaking. 

"You asked about my land." She extended her arm in an expansive gesture, indicating the end of the garden. Far off in the distance, bonfires like those Gary had seen earlier were going strong. "Everything you can see, up to the farthest of those fires, is mine. The people owe fealty to me; they grow the crops that sustain life here at the manor. It was all my husband's, of course, but now that he is gone, it is better managed than it ever was in his day. Of course, Edward would never have let a mere woman run his estate while he was alive," she added in a wry tone.

"Lady Nessa," Gary told her, earnest and a little bit rueful, "there is nothing mere about you." 

She smiled, and an emptiness that he didn't understand shone from her eyes. "All women are mere, or have you forgotten that along with your past?"

"My--uh, my lady, I don't know--" He had no idea how to respond. Maybe Fergus's amnesia story hadn't been such a great idea after all.

"Never mind." She patted his arm, then moved, skirt swishing, to stand by the large stone post at the garden entrance. Stopping just behind her, he drew in deep breaths of the cool night air. It was bracing enough to clear his head a little. 

"Forgetting the past is not a crime," Nessa continued, in a voice so low he was forced to step nearer to hear her. "Indeed, at times I have wished I could." 

It was a strange thing for her to say. Up to this point she'd given every indication of being completely satisfied with herself, but now he heard genuine regret. Just what was it she was trying to forget?

"What happened to your husband?" he asked, propping his elbow against one of the pillars. He was trying to reclaim a little of his swagger, but it was hard not to let his suspicion that Nessa was capable of doing away with anyone who got in her way sneak into his voice. He drank more of the mead in his goblet. For courage, he told himself.

"Edward died two years ago from the same disease that took half the world. Not even his physician from London could save him." Her voice was flat, and she tilted her chin up when she glanced back at Gary. "I am sure that you remember that dark time, no matter where you were or what has happened since. How could the pestilence not have left an indelible mark on your memory?" 

"Uh, yeah," Gary said, nearly choking on his mead. Everything Morgelyn had told him in the graveyard the day before came rushing back; the memory of the stricken look on her face as she'd told the story was enough to undo the wine's calming effects. The only thing he could think of to say was worse than inadequate. "I do know about that. I'm sorry. A-about your husband, I mean." 

Nessa nodded, as if his stuttering, uneasy response was exactly what she'd expected. "In the end, he even asked me to send for Amalia." 

"Amalia?" Gary shivered, remembering the creepy conversation between Robert and Morgelyn the night before. "That's Morgelyn's grandmother."

One eyebrow climbed Nessa's elegant forehead, nearly to the edge of her headpiece. "You seem to be replacing old memories with new knowledge." She paused, but Gary had no idea what to say to that. He couldn't tell if she thought that was good or bad.

He finally settled for: "What happened?"

Nessa's eyebrow slid back to a normal position, her expression perfectly neutral as she scanned Gary's face. "She did not come. She sent word that she was too busy helping the people in the village. Mere peasants, but because they were freemen, there was nothing Edward could do to force her to come." There was no mirth in Nessa's almost-smile. "It was the only time I ever saw a woman defy him. She did send a concoction of foul-smelling herbs, but by then it was too late. He died an hour later."

"Is that why you and Morgelyn don't get along?" Damn, he thought as soon as the question was out, maybe he wasn't supposed to have noticed that.

A delicate sniff cut semi-darkness between them. "Why on earth should we? She is a peasant. But to answer your question, no." Here Nessa swung her hands behind her and leaned back against the post opposite Gary's. "Quite the contrary, in fact. I blessed the old woman for not coming. Are you shocked?" she asked with a laugh. Gary couldn't hide his surprise at that one. "I had no love for my husband. He was a brute and a cheat, and I am better off without him." When Gary didn't respond, she pushed off from her post and stepped closer to him. "Perhaps you have lost respect for my virtue?"

He was offended by her notions of class and worth, not because he'd had some chivalrous opinion of her virtue, but he knew better than to say so. Clearing his throat to get rid of the cloying sweetness of the wine, he said with a shrug, "No, of course not. I'm just wondering what it is about your past that you'd like to forget."

Nessa tilted her head up to look Gary in the eye. Her headpiece looked like a pair of upside-down ice cream cones about to slide to the floor. Ridiculous, given the seriousness of what she said next. 

"I was married to Edward when I was fourteen years old. By then I knew more about running my family's estate than my brother and father combined." Her chin jutted out, daring Gary to challenge her. "I had been by my father's side since I was a very little girl, watching and learning all that he would teach me and more besides, while my younger brother John was busy with fencing and riding and a hundred other pursuits that had nothing to do with the business of the manor. Father himself admitted I could manage our land better than John."

She stepped past Gary, brushing his elbow as she moved to stand by the railing. He turned so that he could see her and put his goblet on the low stone wall.

"But I was only a girl," Nessa went on, "and I would never inherit the home I loved. Father said it would be best for all of us to marry me off to a brute of a man, a lord twice my age who would never be gentle, or even faithful to me. My father knew what Edward was, and still he gave me away with joy at our wedding feast." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and the gaze she turned on him was haunted. "No one will ever do that to me again."

Her hurt was real. Gary could hear and see it. But it was also dangerous, and over the years it had festered and turned bitter. What might have just been the loss of innocence had turned to something harder, something angrier, and Nessa had learned how to use the knife-edge of that betrayal to cut down any opposition. So why, he wondered with a worm of fear in his stomach, was she letting him see it? Was it possible that she trusted him?

"That must have been hard," he finally told her softly, wishing his words could reach the lost girl he thought he saw in her eyes. Maybe that's what he was here to do: help her to let go of that bitterness and stop whatever it was she was doing or planning that would hurt the villagers. "Now that you can let the past go and decide what to do for yourself, it must be easier--"

The laugh that interrupted him was strident. "I am a . Unless I marry a better partner than Edward, I will never be able to decide for myself."

"But you own this land now..." And you can heal, he thought. He just wasn't sure if he should say that part. 

"Which makes me prey for every unmarried nobleman within a hundred leagues." Nessa's spine had gone stiff, and her tone had turned practical. "Now that father and Edward are both gone, my dear brother would have me married to one of his vassals, so that he can have his own clumsy say in how this manor is run. Then, if I have no heirs, he will be able to leave it to one of his lackwit sons. But I have made a bargain with him. If I can prove to him that I am capable of managing and expanding my holdings by some means other than marriage within the next year, I shall be free to make my own match, to a man who is worthy of me." She slid Gary a sly glance and he could feel heat creeping into his cheeks. "No matter what his standing."

Swallowing a thousand "uh"s, he said, "G-good for you. You should be able to do what you want." Within limits, whispered a warning voice in his head. But he did feel sorry for her, at least a little bit.

"The next time I marry," she said, wrapping the knife-edge of her voice in velvet, "I will choose the man, and he will be..." Her voice trailed off as she widened her eyes, searching Gary's. He felt completely disoriented. Was it just the mead, or had he really seen that lost soul in her eyes, reaching up from a pool of bitterness and betrayal? Was he imagining a pull between them, that feeling that she needed saving as much as anyone else around here, even it was from herself? 

Nessa reached out and touched his sleeve, sidling closer, and lowered her voice to match the _swiff-swiff_ of her skirt. "He will be a knight in deed, whether or not he has the proper name. I want a partner, not a provider; I can provide very well for myself. If the right man came along, I could provide for him, too." Her face was an inch away from his; he could feel her breath on his cheek like a caress.

Fresh air or not, his head went all swimmy again, and the skin on his arm broke out in goosebumps under her hand. He forced himself not to pull away from Nessa, reached for the top of the stone railing and used it to brace himself. He knew what she wanted, knew he was supposed to be as drunk on Nessa's power and beauty as he was on the mead. Lost soul or not, she was, as she kept reminding him, a woman, and this was a grown woman's game. If he was going to play along, he should sweep her up in his arms like any self-respecting action hero and--and--

Nessa took care of the "and". Her hand slipped up his arm, then behind his neck, and she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him, full and strong. Gary could taste berries as her lips parted against his, and for a split second, he thought it was kind of nice. The hand that wasn't on the wall reached around Nessa, going for the small of her back. He hadn't kissed anybody since Renee.

What the hell was he thinking? His eyes flew open and he yanked his hand back. Nessa didn't notice; she was trying to deepen the kiss, exploring, daring him to push it further, to take more, take everything she offered. Her eyes were closed, and he pulled away before she could feel the shudder that ran through his body. 

"You don't even really know who I am," he said, in an attempt to cover up his distaste. He stared down at the dark paving stones. 

Nessa gave a huff of a sigh. "You think me too forward," she murmured, but he could hear the hidden laughter in her voice. 

"No." Glancing up, he gulped and pushed away the uneasy feeling that he'd just done something dreadfully wrong, concentrating instead on the bit of humanity that he'd heard and seen. "I think you're lonely." He didn't add that he suspected that most her loneliness was of her own making. 

Her eyes went round again, but this wasn't subtrefuge. He'd nailed it. She took two deep breaths and then lifted her chin. "I have all this," she said, her arm sweeping in an arc that took in the bonfires in the distance, the grounds and her house. "How could I possibly be lonely?"

"Because there's more to life than owning land," he said simply. 

"Not this life." Nessa's words flared like sparklers between them, then she added, almost to herself, "It seems I was mistaken, or you would know that much." When she looked up at him again, she placed a light hand on his elbow, but her smile was more forced than ever. "Now, Gary Hobson, now you know me. Do you like what you've learned?"

A loaded question if there ever was one. Gary tried to gather his scattershot thoughts, realizing with a lurch of his stomach that she was still gazing at him expectantly, lips slightly parted. Though she made no move, he knew that Nessa was about to try to kiss him again. Fighting back rising panic with the wits he had left, he managed, "I know now why you want Gwenyllan." 

The pronouncement had the effect he'd intended; Nessa stepped back, her eyes shooting twin lightning bolts his way before she brought her expression under control. He would never have even seen it if the moon hadn't been hanging in the sky just behind him, illuminating her face. For a breathless moment neither of them spoke, and tension thickened the air between them like incense. 

"I want to protect the people of the village," she finally said, with affected diffidence. "We are not so different, apparently, in that respect."

There were worlds of difference, but he didn't dare say that. He'd seen two different people in her eyes tonight, a hurt young woman and a calculating, practical politician, and he wasn't sure which one was the real Nessa. But he was sure that both of them were dangerous. In combination, they were probably lethal. He had to choose his words carefully, push her without going too far. Finesse rather than swagger, he thought wildly. He forced a conspiratorial grin. "It's generous of you to offer your protection, but I think we both know it's more than just charity." Free labor from feudal serfs probably had a lot to do with it.

"Of course it is." Nessa shrugged, as if she'd expected him to have figured that out a long time ago. "After all I have told you, you must realize that a woman alone has little hope of defending herself without the backing of land, of power. Your friend Morgelyn, for example--she is your friend?" An innocent question, but the arch of her eyebrow was too calculated, the gleam of her teeth too eager, and the turn of the topic too deft. 

Mouth open, Gary nearly answered her honestly. Of course Morgelyn was his friend, for reasons she would never understand. Even if she had known about the inexplicable connection between his friends at home and those he'd found here, she could no more understand that kind of friendship than he could understand the world glittering just inside the doors behind them. But he couldn't say that. This, too, was part of the game, and he couldn't give his hand away. If Nessa wasn't sure what he thought of Morgelyn, she could just keep right on guessing.

"She's helped me out," he said casually, flicking his hand as if to shake off a fly, "but, to tell the truth, I hardly know her. I've only been here a few days. What about you, what do you think of her?"

Nessa's mouth twisted. "She is certainly interesting, but she is hardly worth your attention. Nothing will ever come of her, with all her unusual qualities, and she only worsens her situation when she tries to tell others what to do. Do you know, I think half the reason Father Ezekiel advises the villagers against accepting my offer of protection is her urging? She has undue influence over him."

Undue? Something hard lodged itself in Gary's throat, and all of a sudden he couldn't swallow.

"One might almost say it is unnatural," Nessa added, staring out again at the bonfires. 

Forget swallowing--he was having trouble breathing. Swagger, some distant part of his brain cautioned. Don't forget swagger. "I see what you mean," was the best he could do.

"It was an amusing story she helped to tell today in the village, along with that blind man." She wrinkled her nose at the word "blind". 

Gary reached for his goblet again to hide his clenched jaw and flash of anger. She couldn't be baiting him. She couldn't possibly know. He curled his fingers around the cup's stem, clenching it so that its pattern of carved metal and jewels embedded itself in his skin.

Fingering the biggest amethyst in her necklace, Nessa went on. "It would be wonderful if it were true--if they could find that treasure--but of course it is only a story." She waited, watching him like one of those hawks she seemed to like so much. "These are hard times for everyone. Those poor villagers have had such a difficult time in these years of trial. What they really need is someone to lead them."

He sucked in his lower lip, nodding as if he agreed. "And that someone--that would be you?" She didn't answer, just raised her eyebrows at him speculatively. "Do you think they'd give up their freedom for your protection?" He made it sound as if he really thought they might, and, trying to look no more than casually interested, took a slow drink of his mead.

"Some of them have already approached me." Her hand dropped back to her side. "Look what their freedom has bought them. Fear, illness, and a future full of doubt. Since the pestilence wiped out half the population, they have been growling at each other's throats, worse with every passing month. You have seen how fear and suspicion run rampant there. My tenants have much more surety. If any of them were ever to cut a woman with a knife because he thought she was a witch, he would receive a much more just punishment than a mere scolding from a priest."

Choking on the dregs he'd just swallowed, Gary had to put one hand on the post behind him until his coughing fit passed. Very smooth, hotshot. But what exactly was Nessa implying?

"Of course," she went on as if she hadn't noticed, "that event was entirely understandable. Mark Styles and his friends roam around Gwenyllan like a pack of unleashed dogs. Who knows what they will do next, now that they suspect her?"

The entire contents of Gary's stomach flipped over in sloshy rebellion. "You think something's going to happen to Morgelyn?" 

"I think these past years, and even your own experience, have taught us that anything can happen to anyone." Nessa's tone grew hard, her warning unmistakable. "Things in Gwenyllan are about to come to a head, now that more people have fallen ill. This might be the return of the pestilence, or something worse. I can let it run its own course, or I can direct it, but with or without me, a line will be drawn." She turned her head, facing Gary straight on. "Someone with your talents and charms--I would hate to see you on the wrong side of it. You do not belong with them, Gary; you never even have to go back there. I can offer you so much more. If you are willing to join me, we can direct the course of events together."

Part of his brain absolutely goggled at that. She honestly thought he'd make some kind of alliance and go along with her plans. Maybe if she kept thinking that, he could at least find out what her plans were, but he wasn't sure how much swagger he had left. He finally relaxed his hand and let the goblet dangle, upside down between his fingers, and the last drops trickled out onto the stones.

"I think--" he began, but at that moment a throat cleared behind him, and he nearly jumped off the patio. 

Nessa shot a look of impatience over his shoulder. "What is it, Hugh?" 

Gary turned and found a man dressed in plain but well-made clothes standing behind him. "Forgive the interruption, m'lady," the man said smoothly, "but your guest from London has arrived."

"See that his quarters are made ready," Nessa said with an imperious wave, "and tell him that I will come to speak with him soon." 

"Yes, my lady." With a deferential bow, Hugh started back toward the doors. Nessa watched him for a split second before she turned back to Gary.

"I am afraid I must greet my new guest. We can resume our conversation later, can we not?" She followed his glance to the moon, and a tiny frown creased her forehead. "In the meantime, I will find you some charming company."

He'd been remembering his promise to Morgelyn, but the moon was still high in the sky, and he really wanted to know just what it was Nessa thought was going to happen in Gwenyllan--or what she was planning to do about it. He forced a smile and nodded.

Fergus shot him a sharp look when he re-entered the main hall with Nessa on his arm. One of the ubiquitous servants appeared immediately, exchanging the empty goblet in Gary's hand for a full one before he quite knew what was going on. 

"Now, we must find you a dancing partner." Nessa released his arm and flashed him a brilliant, false smile before considering the crowd before them with her head tilted to one side.

"I don't dance," Gary protested. Why didn't anyone ever believe him about that?

Nessa's answering laugh was high-pitched and edgier than before. She leaned in close and whispered, "On the contrary; I am quite sure that you dance very well indeed." 

Get the hell out of Dodge, screamed Gary's brain, but the message didn't get through to his feet, and he couldn't think of the right words to set him free of this mess. All the music and talk and smoke swirling around in here made it hard for a guy to think.

"Elaine!" Nessa called. "I see you are in need of a partner for the next dance." The dark-haired young woman with the fake French accent twittered her way over to the pair, a wild, hopeful grin splitting her face. "Drink your mead, Gary," Nessa advised under her breath. "This will be thirsty work indeed."

"Indeed," Gary muttered. Before he could get another swallow down, Nessa was gone and Elaine had her hand wrapped around his arm, dragging him out to the dance floor. He followed, thinking that he was doing the wrong Bond imitation. He had all the girls, but the information he needed was tantalizingly out of his reach. 

He really needed to work on his swagger.  


* * *

  
_So let's find a bar  
So dark we forget who we are  
And all the scars of the nevers and maybes  
Die_  
~ Jonathan Larson

"...and then there was the time I had coffee with Julia Roberts's makeup consultant--well, not with her, but we were in the shame sop, and she took my card and said she'd have Julia give me a call any--any--" Chuck swept the air in front of him with a hand that didn't quite feel as if it was attached to his body. "Any old day now. Any day. But you know, I'm not going to wait around. I heard Michelle Pfeiffer's looking for a juicy role, you know, something a little different, and you know who's got it for her?" He pointed a finger at the nose of the man next to him, missed and poked the tattoo on the big guy's bicep instead, right at the point where the dagger entered the heart. "Chuck Fishman, that'sh who."

No response. Maybe humor would work better.

"That'sh a very nice outfit you have there," he told the guy. "The last time I saw that much leather was on a cow. Get it? A cow, 'cause...'cause that's funny!"

A growl sounded from deep inside the man's chest. Considering the size of the chest, that was pretty damn deep. Chuck wondered what a biker could have against a harmless little joke. He was just about to ask when the bartender leaned his elbows on the counter between them. "Hey, Hollywood. Your friend's here." He nodded toward the opposite end of the bar.

Chuck peered down the expanse of pitted wood that had long since lost its polish. Squinting against the somewhat brighter light near the door, he could see a vaguely Crumb-like bulk making its way toward them. The biker next to him growled again, but the bartender leaned over and whispered something as he handed the man another mug of beer. The next thing Chuck knew, the tattooed monstrosity was leaving, jostling into Chuck as he got down from the stool.

"That's okay, really, no harm done, it was only an accident, right?" Chuck called after him as he tried to mop up the third of a mug of cheap beer that had somehow ended up on his shirt and pants. He looked up from his haphazard swabbing into the face of Zeke Crumb, and gulped.

"Making friends all over the place, huh?" Crumb's eyes were exactly level with his. Chuck could take the piercing stare for only a moment, then he looked away, into the swirl of amber in his glass. For some reason, he'd expected to see Marissa with Crumb; expected the double-barreled shotgun of their anger and disappointment. But there was only Crumb, and instead of chewing Chuck out, he eased his bulk onto the stool next to Chuck's with an expression that Chuck, in his less than coherent state, couldn't decipher. "Whatcha drinkin'?"

Chuck shrugged, propping one elbow on the bar so he could rest his chin on his hand. Things moved around a lot less that way. "Well, I started with beer, but it didn't do the trick." 

"He graduated to scotch rocks a couple hours ago," the bartender told Crumb. Chuck raised his glass and started to hum "Pomp and Circumstance," but at that Crumb did glare.

"Sorry, man, I dunno the words. Marissa probably does. Where is she, anyway?"

"She went to dinner with the Hobsons."

Chuck snorted into his glass. "Oh, that's great. She's taking her Oliver Stone act on the road? Gonna throw all her little theories at Lois and Bernie to see if they stick?"

"Fishman," Crumb growled between his teeth. His forehead rippled into deep furrows, but all he said was, "Give her a little credit, will ya?"

"Yeah, okay, you're right." Remembering, sort of, the tail end of the conversation he'd had with Marissa early that morning, Chuck finished off his glass and slid it across the bar to where the tap jockey stood staring at the unlikely pair. He gestured for a refill with two fingers. The bartender frowned and turned to Crumb, who gathered his lips in a disgusted expression, but shrugged.

"What the hell. And I'll have a scotch and soda. Just one."

Chuck blinked. "You're gonna--but you--"

Turning in his stool so that his back was to the bar, Crumb leaned back and took in the dimly lit little hole in the wall with a practiced gaze. "I am tired of pickin' up pieces, Fishman. I need a drink. Not to get drunk. Just a drink." They reached for the glasses the bartender brought, and Crumb took a sip, then looked at Chuck. "So, what's up?"

Chuck twirled his glass back and forth between his hands for a few seconds before he answered. "What's down is more like it." With a deep sigh, he let go of the glass and sat back on the stool, knuckling at his watery eyes. The smoke in this place was really getting to him. "He's not coming back, is he?"

Crumb watched him over the rim of his own glass. He took his merry time rolling his drink around in his mouth before he swallowed. "No, Fishman, I don't think so."

Chuck sighed and let the music from the jukebox fill the space between them. The jukebox, all green and pink neon, was the prettiest thing in the bar, and that included the ladies playing pool on the other side of the room. But the music stank like last month's milk. "I have this thing about AC/DC," Chuck told Crumb.

"Huh?"

"This group--" Chuck swung his glass around to indicate the jukebox. "I hate them. They remind me of this girl I knew in college. She left me after a week to be a groupie." The drum solo reached a frenzied crescendo, then settled back down and let the guitars and the stuck-pig squealer of a vocalist take over. "No more heavy metal for me. And no more women whose hair makes them taller than me."

"Fishman--" Crumb shook his head, then started again. "If you don't like this music, then what are you doing here? How'd you find this place, anyway?"

"I just drove around for a while after--I needed someplace that didn't--" Chuck took another gulp of the whiskey, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. The last thing he needed was to start blubbering in front of Crumb.

An unreadable expression on his face, Crumb turned back to the bar, placing his glass down on a napkin, as if anyone there would care about the finish. "There are people out there who are worried about you, ya know. What did you think you'd prove, comin' to a place like this?"

"Prove?" Chuck shook his head and the room spun around him, further loosening his tether to reality. Good. "Nothing. I don't wanna prove nothing. I could never prove anything to Gary anyway. I was never--never good enough, and now when Marissa--I can't even believe--" Chuck tipped his head back and let the last of his scotch roll down his throat. The tumbler slipped out of his fingers and landed on the bar with a clank.

He couldn't seem to get a grasp on the glass to right it. It rolled out of his reach, down to the dark end of the bar. "Fuck." He leaned on the bar, forearms in the pool of indeterminate liquid that had been there since he'd shown up early in the afternoon. "Sorry, Crumb. I just..."

"Yeah," Crumb finished for him when he trailed off, unable to find the words to describe his current state. They both stared at the ancient Falstaff Beer sign above the bar. 

"You must think I'm the biggest loser this side of the Missip--of the Mishish--of the Rockies."

"Nah."

"Well, then, Marissa does."

Crumb snorted. "Don't worry, Fishman, she's probably not too happy with me right now, either."

"I've blown it. I've totally blown it."

"Huh." Crumb swiveled his bulk to face Chuck. "You know what I think? You really wanna know?"

"Why not?" Chuck already knew he was a mess, not to mention a lousy friend. Nothing Crumb had to say could hurt him, not anymore. Not when he was protected by the thickest cushion of scotch he'd ever built in one sitting.

"I think, for once, you got every excuse to be an idiot." Crumb nodded judiciously when Chuck blinked at him in surprise. "You get this night--this one night--free, 'cause I understand a little of what you're goin' through." 

"You do?"

"You think I haven't lost friends? Hell, Fishman, I was a cop. Plus, I'm older than Methuselah, ya know."

Their eyes met for a moment, and Crumb pushed his glass, still two-thirds full, over to a dumbfounded Chuck. "Go ahead, forget for a while. I don't blame ya. But there's one thing I want you to remember." He pointed one--three--no, one--finger at Chuck. "I have no idea why, but Hobson liked you. You. You were his friend. He didn't care about you proving nothing. I might not know everything that you yahoos got up to, but I do have eyes, ya know. Hobson depended on you to help run the bar, and he missed you when you left, but he was glad you had a chance to do something you wanted to."

Chuck shook his head until his stomach threatened to revolt. Oh, it was going to make him pay for all the abuse it had endured today. "He was pissed at me for bailing."

"Not so much that he wasn't happy for you." When Chuck opened his mouth to protest, Crumb cut him off, slicing his hand through the air. "You weren't there the past couple months, I was. So don't tell me I don't know what's what. Hobson was easier to read than a billboard, most days. And you know what else? Marissa feels the same way about you." He leaned in close, wrinkling his nose, and Chuck realized that he must smell...well, not exactly lemon fresh. And he had to be nine kinds of hammered to believe that Crumb, of all people, was actually granting him absolution.

"Look, Fishman, I don't know why, but there was one person in this city who liked you for who you are, and there's another one who still does. Lots of us don't ever get that lucky."

Yeah, but Chuck would bet that he'd blown any chance he might ever have of getting back into Marissa's good graces, if he'd ever been there in the first place. No matter what Crumb said, she'd kick his ass all the way back to LA with those chunky heels she always wore if he walked into her house like this. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well for one thing, you're gonna pay your tab and get your butt off that bar stool." Crumb stood as Chuck dutifully fumbled for his wallet. Glancing down at the contents, Chuck realized that in his current state, he was about as likely to pull out the right bills as...well, hell, as Marissa would be. The only thing he was sure of was that they were all green. He handed the wallet to Crumb, who yanked out some money and tossed it on the bar. "You got a coat?"

Chuck looked around. "Shit," he muttered, bringing one hand up to still his spinning head. It didn't help at all, it was the room that was tilting and turning around him. "Maybe out in my car?"

Clamping a hand on Chuck's shoulder, Crumb pushed him forward. "We're gonna find you some decent food and coffee, if you can keep it down, and then water and aspirin. Then you're gonna go back to Marissa's. She might be pissed at you, she might not wanna talk to you until you sober up, but she's not gonna throw you out on your kiester." Chuck staggered to a halt as they left the bar. The fresh air made his face tingle. Crumb grabbed him by both shoulders and looked him in the eye, his face eerily wan under the flashing blue neon sign. "When you wake up tomorrow, you remember that, and be grateful."

Chuck nodded, even though he wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to--his short-term memory was shot. Something about Marissa, something about her not being entirely ready to bail on him. Man, he hoped that was right. "Crumb?" 

"Yeah?"

"What about you?"

"Me?" Crumb shook his head. "Alls I ask is that you don't toss your cookies in my car."  


* * *

  
_Beware of pretty faces that you find  
A pretty face can hide an evil mind  
Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away  
Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow  
Secret Agent man, Secret Agent man…_  
~ Johnny Rivers

Three bumbling dances later, Gary decided that drastic times called for drastic measures. He ditched Elaine by telling her flat out that he didn't speak French and held no property, and then refusing her whispered offer to sneak off and join the revelers at the bonfires out on the moors. Disappointed, she wandered off in search of a new prospect, leaving Gary alone and relieved, until he saw three more young ladies heading his way. He ducked behind a servant, who misinterpreted his move as a request for more wine and obliged immediately, then moved away. 

Yet another goblet in hand, Gary slipped behind the nearest stone post and found a group of men discussing the price of Italian silks. He tried to look interested, nodding and listening intently until the girls left. About that time, the men realized he was there, and they shot him suspicious looks as they moved away. The atmosphere in the room had changed just a little, as people got more comfortable--and probably more drunk, Gary thought with another sip of his wine--and some of the veneer of social graces wore off. Even he could see that there were definite cliques around the room, and while the younger set was interested in dancing, laughing, and trips to the garden, more of the people his age were engrossed in private conversations.

He wove his way through the crowd, feeling just as out of place as ever. The only thing he had approaching a clique was Fergus, and, Gary realized when he made it to the fireplace where the musicians were taking a break, the peddler wasn't anywhere in sight. He didn't see the purple peaks of Nessa's headdress in the crowd either, and wondered if that was good or bad. There was something he needed to ask her about, he thought through his mead-fuzzed brain. What was it? Oh yeah. What exactly was she planning for Gwenyllan, and what did it have to do with Morgelyn? Was it worth staying around here to try and find out, or should he just go home? 

Home. He'd never expected that that would be a relative term.

"Gary! Gar-reee! I want you to meet my friend!" Elaine's voice was the closest thing to tires squealing on pavement that Gary had heard in three days. Seeking shelter, he ducked behind heavy velvet curtains that separated a hallway from the main room. "Ou sont-il?" Elaine squeaked, and Gary vowed to stay where he was until he was sure she wasn't going to follow. He relaxed when the curtain stayed where it was, and, glad to be alone for a few minutes, looked to see what was behind him.

He was in an empty hallway, lit by a few torches in sconces along its walls, which were made of the same grey stone as everything else around here. Heavy oak doors with iron fittings lined both sides of the hall. Up ahead, the second door on his left stood ajar. Gary could hear a murmur of voices, and he walked that way on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall.

Words became clearer as he got closer to the door, and he recognized one voice as Nessa's. 

"...but now that you are here, things should move at a faster pace. The appearance of a new sickness is timely, too."

The voice that responded was a man's, a smooth baritone that Gary thought at first might be Father Malcolm's, but then as he listened, he decided it must have been someone else. Not enough simper or something. "If all you have told me is true, Lady Nessa, the villagers will be asking for your protection in no time. We have only to prompt them."

This was exactly what Gary needed to know. But prompt them how? He stopped just before the wedge of light that spilled out into the hallway from the barely-open door. 

"They must come," Nessa was saying, more desperate than she'd sounded yet. "I must have that land, and the people to work it. I will not marry that fool Lord Hilleston, and this is the only way to prevent it." There was a pause, the man murmured something Gary couldn't make out, and her voice became calmer. "Yes. They say that every chain has a weak link, and this is true, but I have found that if one can break the strongest link, it makes a more satisfying snap." Her voice pounced on the last word, breaking it like a stalk of fresh celery, and the cold pleasure behind it made Gary's skin crawl. 

"And the strongest link is...?"

"Surprisingly, it is not the priest," Nessa said. "Father Malcolm welcomes this, for it will greatly increase his authority."

Gary could hear them moving around, farther away from the door. It was harder to hear them, but he didn't dare go any closer; he'd be right in the light, and frankly, he didn't trust himself to make a smooth exit at this point. But he had to know. He leaned forward, focusing all the brain cells that weren't alcohol-numbed on what he could hear of the conversation.

"...about the other?" the man asked.

"He is of very little consequence. I doubt it will be difficult to turn them against him, given the way he..."

He what? The other what--the other priest? Was she trying to turn them against Ezekiel? 

There was more that he couldn't hear; too much distance and the sounds of unpacking, then the voices got closer again. 

"After all, there must be some of them left to work the land. The disease is timely, but we cannot let it get out of control."

"Believe me, Lady Nessa," the man said smoothly, "I have seen it enough to know exactly what will happen. Once we are finished with the first one, or possibly two, they will turn to you out of fear from the mere thought that there might be more. Of course, we do not have to stop there. We can target all those who you wish to be rid of."

In the dim torchlight, Gary could see his hand shaking against the grey stone wall. Funny, he couldn't feel it. Though he still didn't know exactly what they were planning, his gut instinct was to turn and run, run all the way back to the cottage and take Fergus's advice and get Morgelyn out of there, away, somewhere different, somewhere safe. But how could he protect her, or Ezekiel, or anyone in the village, if he didn't know what to protect them from?

He drew in a steadying breath, telling himself that they were talking about something that would happen in a few days, at the soonest, and not the next few minutes. He hadn't even heard who exactly they were going after, though his earlier conversation with Nessa--and just the fact that whatever had sent him here clearly expected Gary to ally himself with Morgelyn and Fergus--was enough to give him an elephant-sized clue. But if he could find out what else there was to know and what this plan involved, maybe they could stop it before it actually happened. 

His thoughts were going in loopy circles and he needed to just focus, Hobson, just figure out what you can...

"Oh, if there is a treasure, we will find it and destroy it," Nessa was saying. "But I doubt such a thing even exists. It was only--"

He didn't hear the rest. Back down the hall, a door squeaked open. Heart pounding, he pressed himself against the wall. What could he say if caught? Maybe he could pretend to be looking for the bathroom. But what would they call it here? Somehow, he didn't think a place like this would have an outhouse, but it couldn't have indoor plumbing and...he really should have been able to think a lot more clearly.

A shaft of light appeared and disappeared at the end of the hallway from which he'd come, and he tried to pull back into shadow. There were more voices, soft and low and one, at least, familiar. Fergus. Gary hurried down the hall.

"Gary? What are you doing here?" 

"Sh!" Gary hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. He nodded toward the curtain, then pushed Fergus in that direction when he would have stood staring, first at Gary, then down the hall. 

"Did you and Nessa--"

"No!"

A soft giggle came from the doorway, and Fergus bent away from Gary's sharp look to roll up his tights, which had been in donuts around his ankles. For a split-second, Gary couldn't even speak.

"I don't believe you!" he finally sputtered. 

"Me? Fergus straightened up, returning Gary's stare. "I was not the one kissing the enemy."

"I--I didn't--" Gary sputtered. "She kissed me, it wasn't like--"

"Hello!" squeaked a cheerful voice. Freckles. Checking back over his shoulder, Gary saw the crack of light at Nessa's door widen.

"Out!" he commanded in a whisper, pushing Cecily and Fergus through the drapes ahead of him. He kept right on pushing them until they were in the middle of the dance floor, lost with the other minglers waiting for the music to resume, and though Nessa scanned the crowd when she emerged from the hallway a few minutes later, Gary was pretty sure the three of them didn't look any more suspicious than the rest of the crowd.

"I was just trying to find out what she's planning," Gary started to explain, but his stomach roiled at the memory of what he'd heard. 

"Did you?"

Gary nodded. Then shook his head. Then felt so sick he wanted to sit down right there in the middle of the dance floor.

"And?" Fergus prompted.

"It isn't good."

"I thought you said you were going to sing a song just for me." Cecily pouted at Fergus, but, wide-eyed, he was still gaping at Gary. 

Running one hand through his hair, which did nothing to clear the thoughts whirling through his brain, Gary managed to focus on Fergus's unsteady form--or maybe it was Gary who wasn't so steady--as he muttered, "I think we should go now, don't you?"

"No, you must not go!" Cecily's lower lip jutted out even further, and she wrapped both hands around Fergus's upper arm. "There is still much more dancing, and food, and mead!"

Gary's stomach turned at the mention of mead, but it flipped backwards and landed somewhere in the vicinity of his toes when he heard Nessa's voice at his elbow.

"Of course you won't leave," she said, her grey eyes somehow darker than they'd been before, even though her mouth was lifted in a perfect smile. "I have not even had the chance to dance at my own party. What will everyone think?"

"My lady, excuse me." With a quick, embarrassed curtsey, Cecily turned and fled to the kitchen, and when Gary turned from watching her hasty retreat, Fergus, too, had deserted him. Again. Before he could find words, Nessa had him back out on the dance floor, surrounded by dozens of others who seemed to have found their enthusiasm again, now that their hostess was going to join in the fun. Fun, like home, being a relative term, Gary thought grimly. 

The next couple of hours passed in a whirl of--well, of whirls. Gary never really did figure out what he was supposed to be doing, but that bothered neither Nessa nor the next partner to whom she handed him, nor the one after that. He knew that later, all he would be able to remember was watching skirt hems and tights swirl through his exhausted vision, and trying to make noncommittal noises serve as his end of the conversation. 

Finally, blessedly, a man in green velvet clothes and bright gold tights whisked away his most recent partner, and he found an empty bench near a nice, quiet, dark, non-moving wall. Gary lowered himself to it, waved away a servant who would have handed him another glass of mead, and let himself go limp. God, he was so tired, and he had to figure out--Nessa was--that guest of hers--Morgelyn--he had to help--the villagers. The villagers needed saving, but they were also the enemy, because they turned to an enemy, or at least he was pretty sure that Nessa was an--

"An enemy of my friend's friend is the enemy of my friend--no, wait, that's not right," he muttered, and only realized he'd said it out loud when the servant he hadn't even noticed approaching scuttered backward as fast as his feet would take him. 

He needed to put his head down, just for a second, just so he could think. He'd close his eyes and rest his head for a few minutes, and then he'd get Fergus and they'd go home, and everything he'd learned here tonight, everything that was happening, would start to make sense. Except for the dancing.

He never had been any good at dancing anyway, he thought as his head connected with the welcoming wood of the bench.  


* * *

  
_Sometimes I see myself fine  
Sometimes I need a witness  
And I like the whole truth  
But there are nights I only need forgiveness_  
~ Dar Williams

Marissa had to retrieve her key from Mrs. Gunderson, which meant that Crumb had come and gone and Chuck was still wherever Chuck was. She was concerned about him, but until she knew where he was, there wasn't much she could do.

Home was an aching quiet, the false calm in the eye of the storm, where Spike and her overloaded answering machine met her in the foyer. She considered wiping out all the messages without listening, but knew that wasn't a good idea. It was as she feared; everyone--her mother, her sisters, her pastor, her friends who lived in the Chicago area, even Chuck's Aunt Gracie--they'd all heard the news, and they all wanted to know if she was okay, what they could do to help, where to send flowers and donations. Dear God in heaven, she couldn't do this. Couldn't even call them to say she was all right. She wasn't, not now, not still vibrating from a couple of hours with Gary's parents.

"Oh, Spike," she murmured wearily, sinking down onto the couch and stroking the head that nuzzled her leg. "What are we going to do?" She sat in the stillness for a few minutes, forcing herself to focus. 

Email would work. Just a quick one to her family to let them know she was still on planet Earth. That way she wouldn't have to talk to anyone, wouldn't have to endure sympathy and scrutiny, wouldn't have to tell the story with the ending she did not, could not believe. It might seem cold to them, but she just couldn't deal with their concern in real time. She fired up the computer, sent the email, and then, as long as she was there, tried scouring the web for anything that might help them find Gary. She didn't know if it was frustration or the tea she drank that kept her awake, but she was still at it when a key turned in the lock. Spike was at the door, barking, before she could get out of the desk chair.

"It's all right, it's just Chuck," she assured the dog, reaching for his collar and hauling him to her side so that Chuck could get in the door. Spike's nails scrabbled on the foyer tile, and a wave of alcohol, coffee, cigarette smoke, and who knew what else hit her nostrils as Chuck staggered in with the cool night air. He must have staggered, she heard him bang into the door twice, and winced. "What's wrong, Chuck? Where have you been?"

"M'rissa! Hey! I've been all--all over town." His hand swept the air in front of her, fanning the fumes that emanated from him and then knocking into her arm. She nearly lost her hold on the still-growling Spike. "With my buddy Crumb. You're my buddy, right? Zeke, my buddy Zeke." 

Marissa pulled back into the living room entrance to make way for another, heavier set of steps. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, just get off my foot, would ya?"

"Crumb? What's happening? Is he all right? Go sit, Spike." Marissa snapped her fingers toward the sofa behind her. Though the German Shepherd complied, she could hear his heavy, worried breathing, and knew he was as confused by Chuck's behavior--and repulsed by the odors that he brought with him--as she was.

"He'll be okay tomorrow," Crumb muttered. "Right now I just gotta roll him into bed. I'm sorry, Marissa. Maybe I should have just brought him to my place."

"Marissa hates sorry," Chuck proclaimed solemnly, sending more noxious fumes her way. "Don'cha? Hates me, too, 'cause I'm one sorry spe-spec--specimen of a human being."

She hadn't thought the knife embedded in her heart could go any deeper, but she'd been wrong. Reaching out a hand, she choked on his name. "Chuck, no."

"Human being, string bean. Strung out being," Chuck sing-songed, just beyond her reach. "Green being, if I don't lie down soon."

"Ignore him," Crumb told her. "Which way's his room?" 

She pointed up the stairs. "End of the hall, on the left. Crumb, what's happened?"

"He's had too much to drink and way too much time to think, if you can call what he does thinking. Fishman, would you get a move on?" Grunting, Crumb dragged Chuck up the stairs. "I fed him and poured some coffee down him, and a lot of water, but he'll need more aspirin in the morning."

Marissa nodded as she followed them up the narrow stairway. Spike tagged along at her heels. "I understand, Crumb."

"Oh sure, you understand Crumb. What about Chuck ?" The words drifted to her through a haze, Chuck's haze or her own, she wasn't sure. Probably both. 

Once they reached the upstairs hallway, she stepped closer to the pair, reached out until she found a sleeve, and knew, when the arm under that sleeve wobbled, that she had the right man. She heard Crumb step away, though not too far, and tried not to make a face at Chuck's foul odor. "I do understand you, Chuck. I do. You're not sorry, you're just upset. And I don't hate you. Will you please, please get that through your thick skull?" She shook his arm with each "please", determined to make him believe. After everything that had happened, she just couldn't bear to let him think that she felt that way. 

"Really?" Chuck hiccupped, then lurched right into her. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, half-supporting him, half-hugging him. 

"Really." Tears stung her eyes, and that damn lump was back in her throat. "I'm your friend, Chuck. I could never hate you."

"Gary--Gary was my friend, too. His cat--did you know his cat hates me?"

"It's okay. No one hates you." She tried to step back, but Chuck stayed draped over her. Crumb reached in to peel them apart, but Marissa kept one hand on Chuck's arm. "You do believe me, right? Chuck, I don't want you to think that I--"

"Marissa." Crumb's voice was soft; he lifted her hand away. "He's asleep, or out of it. I'll get him to bed." 

Marissa backed up against the wall and let Crumb take over. Spike padded over to stand next to her. Grunts and mumbling--Crumb's--were followed by heavy-duty snores--Chuck's, then footsteps and a hand on her elbow.

"You all right?"

She nodded. "I need to get some aspirin and a glass of water, in case he wakes up." 

She shuffled stiffly toward the bathroom, feeling ancient, and heard Crumb mumble, "Better put a bucket in there, too."

A few minutes later, everything arranged on the night stand, Marissa and the ubiquitous Spike plodded downstairs, where Crumb was rattling his keys in the little foyer. 

"He's gonna be okay," he tried to assure her. "I got his stomach settled with some food, and if he's really bad tomorrow, call me, and I'll bring that hangover cure I worked up in the Navy."

It should have been impossible to smile, but for a tiny second she did. Crumb's remedy was infamous around McGinty's. Poor Chuck would be lucky to survive it. "How did you find him?""

"He called here when I was bringing Spike home, from some dive down in the worst part of town. You don't even wanna know about this place. If I was still a cop I coulda busted most of the clientele based on what I saw in the first five minutes. But he was just trying to--" He cleared his throat, and she sensed something new, something she hadn't yet heard, despite all that had happened in the past three days: weary defeat, a hollow note that reverberated off the high-ceilinged entryway. "He was trying to forget what happened to Hobson. It can hurt, you know--well, yeah, I know you know. He was trying to make it go away. It was just a way of coping. A stupid way, but Fishman's never won any scholarships or nothin'."

Crumb's assessment of Chuck's mental prowess was only half as scathing as usual, without any edge at all. He wasn't himself, and the reason why came to Marissa in a rush of guilty realization. She nearly choked again, this time on the question she should have asked days ago. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Gary is your friend, too. How are you holding up?"

"Look, Hobson wasn't--I mean he was--" Crumb's voice dropped to a discomfited mutter. "I don't know if he'd have called us friends." 

"He does," Marissa told him, imbuing her words with all the strength she had left to give. It wasn't much, but Crumb needed it. "Gary cares about you, and I do too. I know I've sort of deserted you, and left you in charge of too much, but I'll try to do better."

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

Nobody could be fine after spending three days dealing with not only the Hobsons, but Chuck, probably Patrick, and Marissa herself. "All I mean is, if you need someone to talk to, I'm here." There was no answer, and she wasn't good at reading Crumb's silences. "Do you want a cup of tea or some coffee or anything? You don't have to leave."

"Thanks, but I think I do. Can't remember when I've felt so worn out, not since I retired, anyways." There was another pause, the keys jingled again, then he said, "Hobson reminded me of someone."

"Who?"

His soft words scuffed the silence between them. "A kid, an idiot kid who joined the Chicago PD a few decades ago because he thought he could make the world a better place."

She had to bite her lip to keep that sharp pain in her heart at bay. She wanted to reach out and hold him up, the way she had Chuck, but she didn't know if he would put up with that. Words were all she had to offer. "You have, Crumb. You both do."

"Maybe." He sighed. "I'd better go.It's late. I'll call you in the morning, okay?"

"Sure."

"You gonna actually be here?"

"I don't know," she admitted, expecting a rebuke that didn't come; there was just another one of those pauses which acknowledged their mutual sorrow.

"Fair enough. Take care." He closed the door behind him, but Marissa didn't hear his feet slap down the stairs until she'd thrown both the locks. Resting her forehead against the polished wood, she let the door hold her up until she heard his car pull away.

She went up to bed, but though she'd been able to fall asleep in the middle of a public reading room earlier, now she was too restless to do more than doze. Far into the night her fingers moved restlessly across the Braille texts she'd gathered at the library, her mind weaving the information into theories that she'd never remember in the morning, accompanied by Chuck's snoring, which went on without interruption for hours. And all the while, Marissa kept the little globe next to her pillow, reaching out to touch it even as she dozed, just in case anything should happen.


	15. Chapter 15

_What is to give light must endure burning._  
~ Victor Frankl

Chuck woke to find himself sitting up in bed, his head screaming protest at the shock of violent movement. It wasn't long before his stomach started in as well, and the effort to keep the bile down where it belonged was all-consuming. He forgot the reason he'd been shocked awake until he heard it again: a hoarse, inarticulate cry that stabbed the air with panic and fear.

"M'rissa?" His lips felt like Silly Putty, his tongue like lead, but Marissa wasn't going to hear him anyway, because she was the one making the noise. Something was wrong, some overly rational bit of his brain that wasn't suffering from alcohol poisoning realized, and he had to do something about it. But it would be better for all concerned, he was almost entirely sure, if he played the hero very, very slowly.

It was still early morning, and the light outside his window was no more than a faint smudge across the sky. It washed the room in a grey haze, enough to show him he'd slept in his clothes again. At this rate he'd cut his laundry bill in half. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, put one hand on the mattress and one on the night stand, and eased himself to a standing position, gingerly testing his balance before taking one step, then another. For a few minutes, the world narrowed to what was directly in front of him. Each step sent his stomach careening from one side of his rib cage to the other, his vision swimming, and his head pounding. He'd never been a wimp when it came to drinking, but last night he really must have gone over the limit. Last night, when Crumb--hands out to the side, Chuck stopped just before the open door of the guest room to take a deep breath and push all that away. He had a job to do here. Marissa hadn't kicked him out or scolded him, she'd understood, and now she needed him.

Her next outburst, words that he couldn't make out, scraped down his spine like rusty nails over cement, and he had to clamp his hands to his ears to keep his head from splitting open. The world twisted in on itself, and when he opened his eyes, he was sitting half in, half out of the doorway, legs splayed in front of him on the hardwood floor. Some hero. Someone, probably Crumb, had left the hall light on, and it was shining too brightly in his eyes. Also, he couldn't help but notice, a large tongue attached to a very large head was licking one of his hands. Rather than growling at Chuck as he usually did, Spike was watching him with pleading eyes, a soft whine deep in his throat.

"I know, boy," Chuck managed. "'M comin'." This time he used the wall and Spike's broad, steady back to push himself up, thinking he might save time and a great deal of dizziness, if not his dignity and pride, if he just crawled the rest of the way to Marissa's room. Four lurching steps down the hall, and he caught himself on the door frame as he lunged into her room, the light finally, blessedly, behind him. It was enough to illuminate the room, and Chuck had no desire to turn on any more lamps. 

Blinking through the sharp, pounding pain, he had to take another few seconds to be sure he was in the right place. He'd often teased Marissa about being a neat freak, even though he knew, as she always explained with affected patience, that she couldn't afford to be messy. It took her too much time to retrieve things when she lost them. By anyone else's standards, the books and papers scattered over the floor would have been a bit of clutter, and not the royal mess that they seemed to be in this room, in this house. Spike waded through Braille printouts that looked to have fanned out as a stack was dropped, or kicked, off the bed. Books lay open on the floor, upside down, right side up--it was hard for Chuck to tell. Marissa shifted among more piles on the bed itself, kicking and struggling against something in her dream. Even as Chuck watched, she lashed out with her foot and sent another book crashing to the floor. Both her hands were out of sight, hidden by a bunched-up twist of blanket. Spike placed his head on the mattress and nuzzled Marissa's shoulder, but it didn't have any effect. He turned a puppyish gaze back to Chuck, as if to say, "Do something."

Chuck gulped. This was not his territory. Rescuing damsels had always been Gary's zip code, and Marissa would clobber him for thinking of her like that. Sucking in a deep breath that grated on every nerve in his body, he picked his way, oh-so-carefully, across the hardwood floor, over the books and papers, until he was standing next to the bed, looking down at his friend in the half-light. All the distress she'd tried to hide over the past couple of days was written in the tight lines around her mouth and eyes, and he knew the squirming in his gut was due as much to guilt and empathy as it was to alcohol. As unsure of the etiquette involved here as he was of the best way to help, he knelt on the floor, gritting his teeth when the spiral binding of a Braille book cut into his knee. He reached out a hand to touch Marissa's...hmmm...shoulder, he decided, that was the safest thing. 

"Marissa?" He whispered her name, as much because he couldn't take the way his voice banged around in his own skull as because he didn't want to startle her. "Wake up, it's just a dream," he added as he shook her shoulder.

"Nuhh...sal--" Biting her lip, Marissa shifted under the blanket. She was still holding something that Chuck couldn't see, and he wondered briefly if it was a teddy bear.

He clamped down tighter on her shoulder. "Come on, Marissa."

"No!" She twisted away, jerking her shoulder out from under his hand so abruptly that he fell back on his butt and sent the book beneath his knee skittering under the bed. Marissa rolled to the other side of the bed, pulling the blanket with her. The crystal ball rolled out from under the covers and bounced on Chuck's arm before landing on the floor next to him. He stared at it for a moment, then heaved his protesting body off the floor. Curled on her side with her back to him, Marissa was still muttering, lost in her nightmare. Spike trotted over to that side of the bed and started licking her hand, but she yanked it away with a faint cry of alarm. Chuck sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to her shoulder again. At least she was wearing long-sleeved pajamas, and not something with shoulder straps. He never could have managed that.

"Marissa." He forced himself to make his voice louder this time, even though it rattled his teeth and set off kettle drums in his ears. "Marissa, it's just a dream. You have to wake up, so I can get some sleep," he added. Under his hand, Marissa's shoulder hitched as she caught her breath. Tucking one leg under the other, he was able to peek over her shoulder and get a look at her face. Eyes scrunched up, lower lip quivering, she almost seemed to be crying, and he wondered if he was in over his pounding head on this one. "Please don't do this," he muttered, then, louder, "Marissa! Come on, it's time to wake up. It'll be over if you just open your eyes, or...uh..." He trailed off, not sure what blind people did to wake up. "Marissa?"

Her breath caught in a louder gasp this time, and her eyes flew open. She sat up faster than he would have thought possible, dislodging his hand with a sharp shrug of her shoulders. He lost his balance again, but managed not to fall off the bed.

"Who's there?" As Chuck steadied himself, she pulled into the far corner of the bed, sitting up against the headboard and drawing her knees to her chest. "Who--what--"

"It's me, Chuck. It's okay, it was just a dream."

She turned her head from one side to the other with sharp, feral movements. "What's burning?"

He'd been scooting closer, reaching for her shoulder and hoping to reassure her, but now he froze. "Nothing's burning. What are you talking about?"

"I can smell it, something's burning, it smells like wood and--and--oh, my God--" One hand flew up to her mouth, and for a moment he suspected he wasn't the only one in danger of losing the contents of his stomach. Maybe she was still asleep. It was hard to tell.

"Hey, are you awake? Look at--I mean, talk--talk to me, okay? It's me, it's Chuck, and nothing's burning." She turned her head in his direction, and he continued, "Remember when you moved in here, and your mom made me and Gary put up smoke detectors in every single room, even the pantry, remember?" Glancing at the detector that he'd put up over the door to this room, Chuck searched for the right words, for any words, that would bring his friend back from her nightmare. Normal, everyday blabbering was all he could come up with. "Took us hours, it seemed like, and then she showed up with with heat and carbon monoxide detectors, and she wanted to sponge paint them or something, so they wouldn't look so ugly hanging all over the place. Believe me, if something here was on fire, we would have heard about it a long time ago." He paused, waiting for the room to stop spinning.He'd used up too much oxygen on that little speech. But maybe it had been worth it. Marissa lifted her hand from her mouth, swiped at her eyes, and he thought he caught the tiny curve of a smile. After a deep breath, she sniffed at the air, and some of the tension went out of her shoulders, though she did wrinkle her nose once in Chuck's direction. 

"You okay?" he asked.

"I had the most horrible, confusing dream."

"Yeah, I know. You were broadcasting it in stereo surround."

She buried her face in her arms. "I woke you up, didn't I? I didn't mean to--"

"No, no, it's okay. Five AM isn't so bad." Chuck finally let his hand complete the distance to her shoulder, rubbing it awkwardly. The wry note dropped out of his voice, though, when he asked, "It was about Gary, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Lifting her head, Marissa rubbed the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other, for all the world as if she were reading Braille dots on her own hand. Chuck noticed, in the pale light, that there was an imprint on her palm, lines and criss-crosses that looked familiar somehow. Marissa swallowed twice before continuing. "I was trying to find Gary, and then I was so lost I was trying to find anyone, anyone at all that I knew. It was a cold, hard place that sounded like a cave or a basement, and then there were hands, hands everywhere, grabbing at me, and angry voices, and I could hear the fire, Chuck, I could smell it. It was so real, and I tried and I tried, but I couldn't find Gary in all the fire." The rapid blinking to hold back tears, the way her chin dimpled with the effort, were so unlike Marissa that Chuck froze up again. He didn't know what to say, and he didn't like what he'd heard.

"It meant something," Marissa whispered, half-choking. 

"It was just a dream," Chuck insisted. "Gary's not burning up somewhere."

"No." Marissa shifted and crossed her legs Indian style while Spike nosed at her elbow. She rubbed his head with one hand, running the other over her eyes again. "That's not what I meant."

Chuck watched her closely, willing her not to cry. That he was sure he couldn't deal with. The ice around these parts was getting dangerously thin. "What did you mean, then?"

"Something's wrong, something's--Gary's--"

"Marissa," he began, and felt like a heel when her name came out in a sigh, which she probably, from the way her expression hardened and closed over, took as a sign of exasperation. 

"Where's the scrying glass?" Her free hand patted the blankets around her. 

Chuck blinked. "The what?"

The hand on Spike's head squeezed a handful of loose skin and fur, and her voice rose, took on a note of panic. "The crystal ball, Chuck, where did it go?"

"Don't get your knickers in a knot, it's right here." Chuck had to bend over the side of the bed to retrieve it from the floor, and when he sat back up again he couldn't suppress the grunt at the fireworks of pain that burst against his suddenly-blackened vision. "Oh, man," he muttered as he handed it to Marissa. She cradled it in her hands, and Chuck realized that was where the imprint in her palm had come from, from the bands of metal that formed the base. 

"It doesn't look any different, does it?" she asked in a faint voice, rubbing a thumb over the smooth glass ball.

"Uh, no," Chuck told her, but when her shoulders slumped he added, "But you know, I'm not the best judge right now. It's kinda hard for me to see straight." Rubbing his temples, he shut his eyes and thought just how simple it would be to keel over and fall asleep right here, amidst the papers and blankets and Spike and Marissa.

"Tough night, huh?" she asked, and the smile she flashed at him was kind, understanding. Like Marissa at last, rather than some badly-shaken ghost of his friend. 

Chuck started to nod in agreement, but ground his teeth at the stabs the simple movement produced. "You ain't kidding sister." 

Clutching the glass ball to her with one hand, Marissa reached out with the other. "And I woke you up."

"Yeah, we've got to stop meeting at oh-god-thirty in the morning." Chuck stared at her hand for a moment, suddenly aware of how strange this, all this was, and how little anyone who knew the two of them--Gary, for example--would believe of what had gone on in the past few days. "But really, it's not a problem."

Marissa dropped her hand to the coverlet, but still left it stretched in Chuck's direction. "It's embarrassing, though."

"I'm sure I more than outdid you in that department last night," Chuck told her with a snort. He traced the raised waffle pattern of the blanket under his hand. "How bad was it?"

"Not bad at all." Marissa was still smiling that half-smile, and Chuck started to breathe a sigh of relief, until she added, "Though you did call Crumb by his first name."

"I'm a dead man," he groaned. 

That earned him a chuckle. Marissa opened her mouth, shut it again with a sigh, and then said, "Why don't you get some more sleep?"

It sounded like a good--no, a tremendous--idea, but Chuck hesitated. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yes." Her voice was definite, but the way she clutched that crystal ball to herself made him wonder. Chuck spared a glance at Spike, who wagged his tail happily. At least one of them was content. "Thank you, Chuck," Marissa added in a whisper. 

He shrugged, even though she couldn't see it. Before he thought about what he was doing, he brushed his fingers over her outstretched hand. "What are friends for?"

"Exactly this." Marissa squeezed his hand for a moment, then released it with a little wave. "I can hear how tired you are. Go sleep a while longer. We can talk later."

"Yeah," Chuck agreed through the sharp-edged blows hammering in his head. He gritted his teeth against movement and stood, walked carefully to the door. He looked back once, and Marissa was still holding the ball thing--what had she called it?--a strange, lost expression on her face. Chuck shook off the small part of him that was urging him to stay, and went into the spare room, downing four aspirin and the entire glass of water that he found on the night stand before collapsing onto the bed and easing his aching head onto the pillow. Something wasn't finished, he thought as his breathing calmed. What, really, had been left to say? 

He'd wanted to ask Marissa more about Gary, about what she thought had really happened. He'd wanted to tell her about Cat. But that could wait for the morning, and a clearer head, and a stronger stomach.  


* * *

  
_I have hands like my grandma, rough and wide  
Smile like my father, kinda crooked at one side  
And the thread of our union  
Pulls through the years  
Through the burdens and rejoicing  
Through the courage and the fear_  
~ Carrie Newcomer

Marissa waited until she heard the bed springs creak across the hall, then let the smile drop from her face. Stretching her legs out, she reached for a pillow and hugged it tight against her chest, trying to still the shaking in her hands. She had a pretty good idea what Chuck thought, but in his condition it hadn't been worth the effort to make him understand what all this meant. She never dreamt like this; never woke up shouting from nightmares. But in this dream, somehow connected to the ball resting in her lap, she had come close to finding Gary she was sure of it. She was also sure that something was wrong, horribly wrong; that Gary needed help now more than ever. Maybe she'd put on a halfway decent show for Chuck, but she was still upset and, if she was honest with herself, frightened out of her wits. 

And her mouth still held the taste of ashes.

A few steadying breaths gave her the strength she needed to unclench her hold on the pillow, pick up the scrying glass, and swing her unsteady feet to the floor. The boards were cold, but they felt good under her feet; solid, the stuff of reality, like Spike's paws clicking beside her and the soft flannel folds of the robe she drew around herself. The metal and glass that she clutched was something else, something other, but she wasn't about to let go of that, either. 

Down in the living room, she made her way to the front bay and lifted the padded window seat to get to the storage area underneath. A wave of cedar filled the air, chasing some of the phantom, acrid smoke from Marissa's nostrils. The quilt she wanted was on top, and she pulled it out with her free hand, using her shoulder to prop the seat open until the blanket was free. Moving more surely now, she made her way to the sofa and curled up in one corner, spreading the quilt over her lap and fingering the patchwork top her grandmother had pieced years ago. 

How old had she been? Not even seven, not even in first grade, but she had dutifully learned to match the textures with their funny names: seersucker, dotted Swiss, muslin, velveteen. And the shapes: kites that made dodecagons, squares and triangles that made stars. She'd traced them with her fingers over and over again, until she could not only name them, but cut reasonable facsimiles out of scrap fabric and lay them in patterns like these while she sat on the floor and listened to the soft whir of the sewing machine, the snip of scissors, and the hiss of the steam iron. Grandmother's fingers had often been shaky with arthritis, but when she was sewing, they'd been sure and strong as the voice that told Marissa family stories and taught her songs. 

The quilt was worn these days, the fabric fraying as some of the seams pulled apart, but she wasn't willing to let someone else replace the stitches now that her grandmother was gone. So she stored it carefully, taking it out only when she needed it most. Times like now, when she wished with all her heart that she could climb the stairs to Grandmother's room and find the faith that had radiated from the old woman like a beacon. If anyone in the world could have understood Marissa's present troubles and given her advice, it would have been Grandmother. She shivered as the images from her nightmare flooded her mind again, and pulled the quilt up to her chin, trusting its tattered grace, inhaling its fragrance--not just cedar, but the faint traces, maybe imagined, maybe not, of lilac cologne and oatmeal cookies and candle wax. They were comfort and hope, a contrast to the cold glass that pressed against her breastbone just above the v-neck of her pajama top and the scent of smoke that hovered at the edge of her consciousness. 

Firetorn, her dream had whispered. Salve nos.

Save us.

Chuck was right. Nothing here was burning. But something, somewhere, was. Or maybe, she finally admitted to herself with another shiver into the quilt, maybe it was someone. Like the tessellating shapes that were joined in her quilt, there was a pattern to this somehow, and what she'd dreamed was part of it. Now, more than ever, she was sure that the scrying glass was the key to finding Gary, but its secrets were unraveling far too slowly for her, and certainly for the people around her. They'd all given up already. 

Maybe her own patience with this mystery was foolish. But that dream had been too real to be anything but a message, a warning. Gary was still alive. He was in trouble, serious trouble, somewhere beyond their reach, and there had to be something they could do to help. 

She traced a dotted Swiss star, fingering the edges that had escaped Grandmother's tight seams, fraying like her own nerves under the friction of too much time. "There's a pattern. There's a reason," she said softly to Spike, and she heard a deep doggie sigh from the floor. Snuggling down on the couch, using the overstuffed armrest for a pillow, She prayed she could untangle the mystery of Gary's disappearance before she unraveled at the seams.  


* * *

  
_Come not between the dragon and his wrath._  
~ King Lear, I. i.

Gary awoke with a mouthful of foul saliva and a head full of the Hickory High School Marching Band's Percussion Section.

Ba-DUM-da-da-DUM-da-da-da-da-DUM-BA-DUM-da-da...

They obviously hadn't practiced since his graduation. They were horrible, out of rhythm, and ghastly loud.

And they were inside his head. Had to have been, because it was so heavy he couldn't lift it from the--what was that pressing into his cheek, anyway? Wood. He was lying on a bench somewhere, with the ghost of high school past weighing down his head. The percussion section had never been particularly svelte. Joey Sims was as big around as the bass drum he played, which he was currently jumping on in his skull. He had no idea where he was, or how the band had got there, and his eyelids were too heavy to lift. Groaning softly, he moved one hand--hand, he had a hand, though it weighed as much as a Sousaphone--up to the bench, and managed to brace himself and push his head a couple of inches off the thick-grained wood before gravity won the battle.

Clank! The cymbals clattered to the bottom of his skull. 

"Oh, shi..." Air escaped his lungs in a soft moan. 

Damn it, where was he, what was going on? He'd never felt so awful in the morning, not even the day after Chuck's graduation party...

Chuck. There was a familiar snoring coming from somewhere nearby, Gary realized as other sounds began to filter through the band's warm-up. But it couldn't be Chuck. He was in California, and Gary was--

He was--

Oh, God. 

With a Herculean effort, he blinked open the eye that wasn't squashed up against the bench. He shut it again as soon as the images registered, but couldn't wipe them from his mind. Stone floor, strewn with revelers who appeared to have dropped wherever they felt the need; empty wine goblets lying sideways everywhere, the dogs curled up with the leftover bones of roast beast.

His stomach heaved and he swallowed, licking his dry, cracking lips. Don't think about food.

People, the people were all wrong. They were dressed in clothes from a Shakespeare play or--

\--or the Middle Ages. It all came back to him in an unwelcome rush.

He could see it now, the look on Marissa's face when she asked him why he'd been gone, and he told her he'd been busy tying one on with the cast of _The Princess Bride_. That would go over well, wouldn't it? Especially since she was already pissed at him for ducking out last night.

No, that wasn't Marissa. Morgelyn. He rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with that one heavy hand, shielding his face against the first rays of light streaming into the great hall. Morgelyn was gonna kill him. 

It would be a mercy, at this point. Anything to stop his head from pounding; anything to stop his eyes from aching; anything to make the darkness stop spinning, anything to stop--

_Plop._

"Meow!"

He stopped breathing. It hadn't been a real plop, not a Sun-Times plop. More like a _plip_. But the second sound was unmistakable, as was the fur rubbing itself against his other, still-dangling arm. Gary grabbed a handful of it and hauled the cat up level with his drum-filled head.

"Now? You gotta be kidding me." His voice came out cracked and rusty.

"Meow."

"All this time it goes AWOL-- _now_?"

Now. It had to be important, it had been days since he'd seen--he sat up in one panicked jerk, and had to drop the cat and put his head between his knees. Bad move, Hobson, he thought, cradling his head and its collection of tumbling drummers. Bad, bad move.

"Meow!"

Head still hanging, Gary pulled his eyes open by sheer force of will. Cat sat at his feet, pawing at some kind of book, loosely stitched with twine. Morgelyn‘s book. Carefully turning his head from one side to the other, he scanned what he could see of the main hall, but he didn’t see Morgelyn. Not a creature was stirring, except for the cat.

"MEOW!"

He picked up the book and opened it, turning through pictures of leaves and flowers and a handwritten scrawl that was completely indecipherable to him. Then, at the end of the book, something changed. More lettering, tightly packed, and no more plants, but in the dim light the letters he could make out were in combinations that meant as much to him as Chinese would.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked Cat through a clenched jaw. "I can't even read it!"

A man sleeping on the next bench over muttered in his sleep. Gary needed to get the hell out of there. Clutching the small book, he scooped up the cat, wobbled to his feet, waited for the room to stop spinning, and finally located Fergus's snoring form near the closest fireplace. Curled around his harp, the would-be bard was as oblivious as anyone else in the hall. Gary picked his way over silk dresses, brocade breeches, and jewel-studded goblets. He couldn't bend down and shake the guy awake. That was asking far too much in his unbalanced, heavy-headed state, so he toed at Fergus's ribs, trying to ignore Cat's plaintive mews and the way it kept pawing at the book in his hand. 

"Ummpphhh!" Fergus rolled over, curling into a tighter ball. 

Gritting his teeth, Gary bent at the knees, carefully lowering himself until he was close enough to hiss, "Fergus, wake up, damn it! We gotta get out of here!"

"Worry not, love; your husband won't be back for another fortnight."

"Fergus!" 

The bard blinked awake, staring at Gary. "I know I did not drink that much last night."

"Damn it, get your stuff and get up. We gotta get out of here, now."

"Gary?" Fergus struggled to sit upright, his harp twanging as it hit the stone floor. "What are you doing with that cat?"

"Meet me outside," he growled. There were too many people in here, unconscious or not, and he wanted to leave unseen. Luckily, he didn't see Nessa anywhere.

Out in the courtyard, he sat down heavily on one of the stone benches. Morning fog clung to the corners of the walled garden, and though the sunlight was filtered through clouds, it created a glare that deepened the ache between his eyes. Though the marching band had subsided, they were still on the field practicing. At least their rhythm was getting better.

He fumbled through the pages, trying to find something to which he could attach his rising sense of panic. "Couldn't deliver plain old English, could ya?" he muttered to Cat, who sat perched on the bench next to him, regarding him solemnly. 

The writing at the end was formal, elaborate, hard as hell to read. Not the grandmother's, and because it was so very different, he didn't think it was Morgelyn's either. That made him more uneasy than ever. If it had come with the cat, it must be news, and if someone else was writing news in this book, then what had happened to Morgelyn? Or rather, what was going to happen. It couldn't have happened already, it had to have shown up here so he could stop it, whatever it was. 

Finally, at the bottom of the last page, he found something that looked vaguely familiar. Latin, he guessed as he squinted, like the mottos on some of the monuments and buildings he knew. 

"In Memorium. Dormiunt in lux perpetua veritas." 

He only could figure out the first two words, but they were enough to send the marching band from his head down into his heart, where they threatened to push the overworked muscle right out of his rib cage. When Fergus spoke from just behind him, Gary nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Why in the name of Our Lady did you do that to me?" 

Gary spun around as Fergus continued, "Waking me out of a sound sleep after a night like the last one is criminal."

"It came." Gary thrust the book at his perplexed friend.

"Morgelyn's book? How did you get hold of that?"

"Cat brought it."

Fergus's frown went so deep his eyebrows met. "How could the cat have brought that book all the way from the cottage?"

"It didn't."

"But you said--"

"It just appeared here, like my paper does. With the cat. And there's something weird with the book, it's changed, it's like it's the paper--tomorrow's--or some day's--news, the news, Fergus. I think this is what's gonna happen." But it couldn't, it couldn't happen, not if it was what he thought. It would help if he could just think straight, if he knew what it was that was supposed to happen. "I can't read it, Fergus, you have to help me out."

Eyes round as cymbals, Fergus set down his pack and took the book from Gary. While he read, Gary paced, two steps to the bench, turn, two steps back, turn...he got dizzy and had to stop. "Tell me it doesn't say what I think it says."

Fergus's face went pale. His hair whipped from side to side as he shook his head. "No. No, I told her this would happen. Why didn't she listen to me?"

The ringing in Gary's ears wasn't from the triangle section. "Damn it, what's going to happen?"

"It says they came for her the morning after the Midsummer's festival. Today. How?"

Frustrated beyond belief, Gary grabbed Fergus by the shoulders. "Who, Fergus? Who came? What did they do to her?"

"Mark Styles is dead. Last night--" Fergus winced at his own words. "They believe Morgelyn--they will--"

"What?"

The two men locked eyes for a moment, and Gary felt a fresh wave of nausea. 

"It says she is dead," Fergus whispered. "They went to her house and they killed her this morning because they believe she is a witch." 

"No." Gary released his shoulders and headed for the gate. "Not yet, it hasn't happened yet."

"Why would someone write this if it is not true? And who wrote it?"

"That doesn't matter. It's going to be true if we don't stop it. Let's go." Gary watched Cat run for the main gate. "We gotta go now."

"But that would be magic, if your cat managed to write the story, and--" Fergus gulped down the rest of that protest when Gary turned an angry glare on him, and held out a placating hand. "Even if it has not yet happened, you are talking about us against dozens of people, with clubs and rocks." He shook his head again. "We cannot possibly stop them alone. We need help."

Clubs? They were going to--oh, no. Nonono. "Fine then, go get help," Gary called over his shoulder as he strode through the gate, angry but out of time to argue. "Me, I'm gonna keep them from--" He couldn't even say it. 

To his surprise, Fergus caught up with him, nodding. "I know," he said suddenly. "If this has not yet happened, then we must do everything we can to stop it. What if Mark Styles is not yet dead?"

Gary frowned. He hadn't thought about that. But every instinct he had was screaming at him to get to Morgelyn. "What if he is?"

"I will go to the village and see. You find Morgelyn, and if you can get her away, head up the coast and I will find you later. I will find someone to help, someone who will--" He broke off, his expression one of blank panic. "Who?"

"Father Ezekiel." 

Fergus shook his head, which made Gary dizzy. "No, no--he may believe that she is--"

"Then you make him believe that she isn't! Try, Fergus, you try. Who else are we gonna get to help? He might have doubts, but I don't think he'd let them kill her, not without some kind of trial or something."

"No, not a trial."

"It'll buy us time. Look, I gotta go. This doesn't say when anything's going to happen, just says morning, and I don't even have my watch any more."

"You know the way from here?"

Gary glanced down at Cat, pawing the ground impatiently. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

The two men looked at each other. "Hurry," they said at the same time, and took off in different directions.

Neither saw the figure that emerged from the shadow of the yew hedges, a slow, cruel smile curving onto an otherwise beautiful face.  


* * *

  
_There was a wave over the house  
There was fear choked in my mouth...  
There comes a time we all know  
There's a place that we must go  
Into the soul into the heart  
Into the dark_  
~ Melissa Etheridge

The marching band helped. It pushed adrenaline through Gary's veins, urged him forward across the damp moor and into the forest. Not fast enough, but faster than he would normally have been able to go with a two-ton anvil of a hangover. He didn't pay attention to paths or landmarks, just followed Cat, who streaked ahead of him like a cheetah. 

Little bits of what Fergus had told him filtered through the drumbeats, joined the meter of his pounding feet and exploding head. "They came for her this morning."

No.

"Mark Styles is dead. They believe she is a witch."

No.

"They killed her."

_No._

They came upon the cottage, Gary and Cat, from the woods behind. When he reached the clearing where Fergus had chopped wood, he could smell smoke and see the first flames licking at the thatched roof of the cottage. Over the faint, malicious crackle he could hear voices, angry voices, shouting accusations in a cacophony that chilled him all the way through the sweat he'd worked up running. Too late, he thought. The villagers were already there. Every pounding footstep brought him closer, turned up the volume, but he couldn't make out the one voice he needed to hear. He threaded his way through the last of the trees and could see, in the front garden, a rough circle of men, intent on whatever was in the middle of their group. 

"Make her watch it!" one of them shouted. "Let her see it burn."

Hatred had its own manic sound, its own smell. Gary couldn't define it, but he knew it, sharp and terrifying, and he'd never been overpowered by it before now. Fergus was right, they would kill her, if they hadn't already. Completely out of breath, ankle-deep in flowers, he nearly went down on his knees. There were too many of them. "We need help," he said to Cat, but it didn't leave, just sat there in the garden staring at Gary. The world blurred around him until one frightened, angry voice rose above the others.

"You cannot do this. You have no right! Take your hands off me!"

That propelled Gary across the garden and into the crowd. He yanked villagers out of his way, calling her name, but he could barely hear himself. He could smell drink and see the clubs and knives the men held when he bumped into them, grabbing their shoulders to haul them out of his path. But what scared him the most was what he saw in their eyes: fire and righteousness, grim determination and a fierce glee. Pushing his way between two men holding torches, he finally made it to the center of the vicious group, and the pounding in his head reached a deafening crescendo.

Two men held Morgelyn, one clenching each arm. Her feet were suspended just above the ground, kicking ineffectually. She was still wearing the red dress from last night, but the skirt was torn; her braids had come loose, swinging wildly from side to side as she struggled. One of the men shook the arm he held and Morgelyn opened her mouth, but then she saw Gary, recognizing him before any of the others even seemed to know he was there. Their eyes met for one frozen, terrible second that cleared his head better than any hangover remedy could have. 

Morgelyn recovered first. "The house, the books! The _trunk_ , Gary!"

Understanding was instantaneous. The trunk, his clothes, the _Sun-Times_ , the Dragon's Eye, his only way home. He spun on his heel and started back through the crowd, but then he heard one sound above, or maybe through, the voices and the crackling fire. It was a _thuck_ of something hard against something soft, something human, followed by a cat's yowl of indignation. When Gary whirled back, the villagers dancing through his spinning vision, he couldn't see Morgelyn.

Oh, God, what had they done, why had he left her? He pushed his way back, fighting harder now, matching his own panicked desperation against the wild anger of the men who turned to stare at him. They seemed to realize, finally, that someone wasn't going along with the program, and they tried to shove him out of their circle, away from Morgelyn, who was no longer screaming or yelling and he couldn't see her, couldn't hear her, what had they done--

"Stop it, damn it! Leave her alone!" He swung his elbows and fists wildly, hit someone in the face, shoved right back at those who would have kept him away, and used his shoulder as a wedge to get through. It was like swimming up a waterfall, but he finally broke through the circle again. Morgelyn lay curled on her front path, arms clenched around her abdomen, eyes squeezed tight as one of the men lifted a heavy wooden club for another blow. 

This one was aimed at her head.

He launched himself forward, landed on top of Morgelyn, and took the brunt of the blow in his shoulder. The sharp pain that exploded across his shoulders, down his back, and into his already-abused head didn't even matter. He was on his feet before he understood what had happened, his thoughts a step behind his body, except for one: he couldn't let this happen.

The man with the club was Simon Elders. He recognized the red hair and slack face in the split second glimpse he had before he plowed into him, pushing him back into the arms of the other villagers. A hoarse voice shouted, "Go home, stranger!", but he ignored it. He spun back to check on Morgelyn, who was sitting up, eyes squeezed shut, still clutching her stomach. She reached out blindly, unaware of the rock being aimed at her by someone else across the circle. Gary grabbed her hand, hauling her up and out of the way. The rock sailed past them and hit Simon in the knee. 

"Stop it, I said stop it! Just _stop_!" Gary shouted over Simon's howl. He pulled Morgelyn in close, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. Shaking, she clutched at his tunic. "Do you even realize what you're doing?" His voice echoed like thunder in his head. The men around him fell silent, though none of the hostility eased. It only grew, like the flames that were now leaping from the roof of the cottage.

"We are ridding our village of a filthy whore of a witch," snarled a voice. 

"No." Gary had to fight dizziness, and he wasn't sure, between himself and Morgelyn, who was leaning against whom. They were encircled, surrounded, he thought wildly. Nowhere to go. If Fergus was coming with help, he'd better be there soon. "No, she's not a witch." He looked down at his friend, who was staring at the flames leaping off her rooftop with horror in her eyes. How could anyone think that of her?

"Mark Styles is dead, d'ye know that?" Simon Elders brandished his club in their direction, and Gary pulled Morgelyn behind him. "His child lived because he broke that witch's curse, but then she cursed the man himself for cutting her, and now he grows cold in his bed!"

"It's not her fault!"

"She is a murderer and a witch!" Nods and grunts backed up Simon's accusation.

"I did not kill Mark." Her words were shaky and she kept a death grip on Gary's arm, but Morgelyn stepped out from behind him to face Simon. "He was sick and he didn't come to me for help, and all he drank last night no doubt killed him sooner."

"This had nothing to do with ale, _witch_." Simon literally spat the words in their direction; Gary flinched and started to pull Morgelyn with him as he backed up, but there was only room for half a step before he could feel the breath of the men behind him on the back of his neck.

"If he had asked me for help I could have saved him."

"You would have killed him that much sooner!" 

Morgelyn's "No!" was half-shout, half-sob.

"She didn't kill anybody! How many of your lives has she already saved, when you were sick or hurt?"

"Stranger," Simon said, staring down Gary with insane malice, "we have no quarrel with you yet. Get out of the way and let us be about our business, or I promise you, you will get the same as her." Shouts and jeers rose from all around them. Gary shook his head and wrapped his arm around Morgelyn's shoulders again. He caught a flash of orange fur out of the corner of his eye, headed for the garden gate, but he didn't know if Cat was deserting him or going for help. They needed help to stop a whole mob intent on murdering one woman.

"You can't do this!" Gary knew he should try to reason with them, but he was too angry to calm his voice. Holding out one hand, palm forward, he tried to find the words to stop the men who were closing in, making the circle tighter, making it harder for them to breathe. He had to buy time, it was the only thing that would save them. "Look, if you think Morgelyn did something, then don't you have to have a trial? Shouldn't there be a judge or something? You can't just accuse someone and kill them without proof!"

Several of the men paused at that, looking uncomfortably at each other, at the burning house. But the glare on Simon Elders's face didn't ease one bit.

"That is true." Morgelyn's voice was quiet, but it had an air of command about it. "If you believe I could have done this, if you truly believe me capable of--of murder--" She lifted her chin. "Then you have to call upon the king's sheriff."

"Why delay justice?" shouted a man behind them. "The sheriff will say the same as the Good Book. All witches must die!" 

"No!" This time Gary's protest wasn't loud enough to rise above the nightmare chorus of shouts that engulfed them. He turned Morgelyn toward him, grabbed her hand, and mouthed, "Run." She nodded. "Now!" He and pulled her toward the weakest part of the circle, only two men deep. But he wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough. Men came at them from every direction, screaming curses. They were pulled apart, and when Gary turned back for Morgelyn there were men in between them, shovels and coarse cloth and scraggly beards, hatred and ignorance, and fear as great as his own.

"Leave me alone! Let me go!" All the command and poise was gone from Morgelyn's shouts; there was only desperation. Gary reached out to her, tried to save her from all the hands pulling her away, pushing her down onto the ground. Someone brought the handle of a tool down on his forearm, and as he bent over, breathless with pain, the marching band started up again, only this time in the rhythm of horses' hooves, pounding under Morgelyn's cries. "Gary! Gary, _please_!" 

He heard it again, the soft thuck of wood, or maybe stone, against skin, and, pushing blindly through the men around him, redoubled his efforts to get to Morgelyn. The horses were closer now. Please, he prayed to whoever might be listening, please let them be real. Please let it be help. He pushed one man away, then another, only to be grabbed from behind, pulled away, losing ground.

He had to reach her. He had to, but there was no way he could, they kept pushing him back. He could hear them swearing, could see flashes of a red dress, could hear Simon shouting, "Finish her off before she curses us all!" 

And then the hoof beats clattered to a halt behind him. 

"Stop in the name of God and the Church!" bellowed an unfamiliar voice. Gary spun around, hoping to see Fergus and Father Ezekiel, but the three men on black horses were wearing armor and an insignia he'd seen at the manor house. These were Nessa's guards, he thought with desperate, sinking disappointment. They weren't the help Fergus had promised. 

The villagers fell silent, gaping at the new arrivals. His gut told Gary the farmers and craftsmen weren't the worst danger, not any more. In that moment, when everyone else was frozen by surprise, he turned back, knocked over a pitchfork-wielding farmer, and jumped for Morgelyn. His fingers brushed hers, but before he could grasp her outstretched hand, something cracked across his skull. The bass drum exploded, and just before the world blinked out he saw Simon Elder's darkly satisfied face and heard Morgelyn screaming his name.


	16. Chapter 16

The next time Chuck woke up, there was rain tapping at the windows; not a serious downpour, but enough to be a nuisance. Another lovely day in Chicago. Maybe it was the cloudy sky that had kept him in bed so long, he thought, squinting at his watch. It was past ten-thirty, nearly eleven o'clock. Or maybe, he realized when his head started throbbing the minute he sat-up--maybe it was more than that. 

He swallowed more aspirin from the bottle on the night stand, then went to the bathroom for water, assiduously avoiding looking at his own face in the mirror. At least this time he was able to walk without getting impossibly dizzy. He risked a glance at Marissa's room as he passed and found the bed made, the piles of books and papers neatly stacked on a dresser. Rubbing at the stubble on his face, he thought about going back and taking a shower before heading downstairs, but decided against it. Simply negotiating the steps was going to be hard enough. He needed coffee, and it wasn't as if Marissa was going to care about what she couldn't see. 

As it turned out, however, it wasn't Marissa he needed to worry about.

He picked his way through the quiet living room and into the kitchen, lured by the scent of coffee, but nearly turned around when he heard Crumb's amused chortle.

"Whoa-ho! I've seen some sad cases in my day, Fishman, but you look positively pathetic."

Settling for a stiff shrug and a glare, Chuck headed for the cupboard where he thought Marissa kept her mugs. Crumb's hand came over his shoulder and held the door closed.

"You don't want to deal with me until I've had at least half that pot." Chuck pointed at the coffeemaker on the other end of the counter, but didn't turn around.

"Don't be an idiot, Fishman. I got something better that'll perk you right up."

Chuck swallowed hard and rested his forehead on the cupboard. "Aw, no..." He hadn't been gone long enough to forget Crumb's stories about his legendary hangover cure, made from a list of ingredients that painted all but the most hardened of McGinty's patrons green at the gills.

"Perfected in the Navy!" 

"Show a little respect for the dead." 

He still hadn't turned around, and Crumb plopped a large glass on the counter, right under his nose. "This stuff always got my boys up and going, even after the wildest shore leaves."

Chuck risked a glance down, then quickly shut his eyes. "Is that a raw egg?"

Crumb clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, filling his own mug with coffee. "Nothin' like it to cure what ails ya. Don't think, just drink. You gotta lie down for about fifteen minutes after, and then we've got work to do."

"What work?" Turning his back to the counter, Chuck stared around the cheerful kitchen and thought maybe he'd just sit in here all day. His head was still throbbing, even though it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been earlier this morning when he'd--wait a minute. Where's Marissa?" She was a compassionate person. Marissa would save him from this fate, he was sure of it. 

Crumb pursed his lips, then poured coffee into his own mug. "Drink the damn stuff and then we'll talk."

Chuck watched, envious, as Crumb swallowed huge gulps of coffee. Nice, normal caffeine. Then he made a face at the glass next to his hand. "It smells like poison!"

"You didn't have any trouble with the poison you were downing last night. C'mon, I am not sitting around in the danger zone until you get your stomach settled and your head screwed on straight." Crumb's mug rattled when he set in the sink, and Chuck winced against the noise. Clamping one hand on Chuck's shoulder, Crumb thrust the glass under his nose. "Drink."

"You think this is going to settle my stomach?"

"Either that or clean it out." There was a hint of manic glee under Crumb's matter-of-fact declaration.

Chuck thought about staring the older man down, but he really needed to sit, and Crumb was between him and the table. He took a deep breath, then another, held it against the sharp pungency of the concoction, and brought the glass to his lips. "I don't know about this."

But Crumb's hand was on the glass. "Bottom's up, Fishman." He tilted the glass, and Chuck opened his mouth to keep the stuff out of his nose and off his face. Milk, whiskey, Tabasco sauce, flat beer, and, yes, an egg slid down his throat in succession. He swallowed just to get it all out of his mouth, and in a few seconds it was down.

"Gah...ack...oh...I...Crumb, I really need to just--" He would have slid down to lie on the cool linoleum floor right where he was, but Crumb was bigger. He forced Chuck and his wobbly legs through the doorway and into the living room. Chuck barely noticed when he pushed him down on the sofa. He had his eyes closed, his entire being focused on _not_ thinking about the horrifying mess sloshing around in his stomach. 

"That's it, lie down, and fergawdsake, keep it down." 

Chuck squinted through his lashes and saw Crumb perch on the edge of the armchair, his sweatshirted bulk incongruous against the pale green chintz. "Dunno if I can," he whispered.

"You gonna mess up Marissa's place? Explain to her that you weren't man enough to handle your liquor?" The armchair's springs creaked as Crumb settled in. Chuck shut his eyes and forced the contents of his rebellious stomach back down with a determined swallow. One breath, then two. Think of something else, like how hard his head was still pounding, when would the aspirin kick in. Could they kick in,through all that mess?

Think of something else. "Where's Marissa?"

"She had to walk her dog, said she'd meet us at the bar later," Crumb muttered. From behind the hand he'd flung over his face, Chuck heard the television click on.

"Cloudy with a few showers today, chilly for this time of year...our special fall clearance sale...Next on Montel: mothers who marry their daughters' boyfriends...Elmo's world, Elmo's world..."

"Could you at least turn it down?"

"Oh, Brett, Derek can never know of our love!...because I only want to serve my family the best imitation potatoes...Elmo loves dancing--lalalalalala..."

"Crumb!" Chuck pleaded. The Muppet's voice was scraping around inside his skull.

Mercifully, the sound was reduced. "Where the hell is ESPN on this thing?"

"She doesn't have cable."

"I thought everybody had cable."

"Think again." Chuck swallowed, and the aftertaste wasn't as bad this time. 

"Huh." The television clicked off, and for a few minutes there was only the faint sound of random raindrops.

"She look okay to you?" he asked Crumb.

"What?"

"Marissa." Herubbed at his cheeks, shivering at the memory of the fear on her face the last time he'd seen her. "This morning, did she seem okay?"

"I guess." Crumb's sigh was heavy. "Tired, but she looked a hell of a lot better than you do. Why?"

He wasn't sure if it was his place to say anything, but there didn't seem to be any need for secrets among the three of them now. "She had a nightmare." Blinking his eyes open, he found that the dim light wasn't nearly as annoying as it had been. Cautiously he pulled himself up so that his head was propped on the armrest of the couch. His stomach sloshed a little, but he didn't feel like emptying it. No way could Crumb's remedy actually work. Or at least there was no way he was ready to admit that it could. Head cocked, the ex-cop was frowning at him through narrowed eyes, waiting for more explanation. 

"I think she just got freaked out by everything." Chuck fingered a fraying piece of pink fabric on the quilt draped over the back of the couch. Most of Marissa's stuff was fairly stylish, or at least sedate, but this looked like something she must have had as a kid. "You know how she thinks Gary--" Covering his eyes again, Chuck barely shook his head. "She thought there was something burning; thought she smelled fire."

"A fire? Did you check it out?"

"There was nothing to check out." 

"Nothin'--" Crumb's voice rose and he leaned forward in the chair, as if he was ready to go fight imaginary flames. "Fishman, you idiot, this place could have burned down around your ears!"

Chuck struggled to sit up. "No, no way. She was dreaming. She's just over the edge."

"Not like you, huh?" Crumb grunted, sitting back again, and Chuck sighed. 

"You think she's right about Gary?"

Crumb shrugged. "The way I see it, either she's crazy or we are, and at this point, I'm not putting any money on us. Not on you, anyway."

Chuck sat forward, hands clasped and dangling between his knees. "I just wish this thing was over, one way or another." But do you, really? whispered the little voice in his head. Are you really ready to let Gary go? What if she's right? 

"Yeah, me too." But Crumb sounded as unsure about that as Chuck felt. "You feeling any better?"

Surprised, Chuck found he was able to move his head, to look up at Crumb, without feeling the least bit queasy. "Actually, yeah." 

Clearly having expected no other answer, Crumb nodded and waved toward the entryway and the steps. "Clean yourself up, and we'll go get your car. If there's anything left of it."

"Then what?"

Crumb got up, headed back to the kitchen; Chuck hoped he was going to make more coffee. "Whatever comes next."

It had to have been the aspirin that was curing him, Chuck told himself as he mounted the stairs. The aspirin, and all the sleep he'd had, interrupted though it may have been. It could not possibly have been that toxic waste Crumb had forced into him. Whatever it was, he was grateful, and he was equally thankful for the rush of steam that greeted him when he turned on the shower and stepped in. He wished, now, that he could do something for Marissa, something that would make her feel better, too, because she'd been so understanding last night, and because he knew Gary would have expected it of him. 

Not that it didn't hurt like hell to think about Gary; it stung like the water between his shoulder blades. Marissa, he told himself firmly. Focus on Marissa. What did she need? Maybe some kind of comfort; maybe that's what that kiddy quilt downstairs had been all about. Chuck knew his own strengths, and broad shoulders really weren't among them. Who, then?

The idea hit him when he was rinsing out the shampoo, and he grinned, relieved in spite of everything. Maybe it wouldn't be such at bad day after all.  


* * *

  
_When such people say they only wish to cure the sick,  
one should cry out, "To the flames! To the flames!"_  
~ Friar Bernadino of Sienna

The screaming was gone when Gary opened his eyes. There was no sound but his own breathing, and he was instantly aware of two things: he was indoors, and instead of the soft dirt of Morgelyn's garden, he was lying, alone, on stone and a layer of dank straw. Sitting up with a grunt, he tried to reach up and brush the straw off his face--

\--and couldn't move his hands. They were tied behind his back and his head felt like someone had used it for a wrecking ball and the smells of smoke and horses rose from his clothes and where was--

Oh _shit_. Where was Morgelyn, what had they done to her? Was she already--the book had said--but he'd changed it by being there, bought time and the guards had come and tossed him in here. Fighting back rising panic, he twisted his wrists against the rough ropes until they stretched enough that, greased by his own sweat, his hands could slide though. He flung the ropes away with a disgusted flap of his wrist, flexing his stiff, protesting limbs while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. 

He was in a high-ceilinged room about the size of McGinty's kitchen. A small, narrow window was set high in the wall, just under the ceiling. Thick bars, closely spaced, blocked the opening, but at least some light got in, cloudy and grey. Evidently it was still daytime. Except for that tiny window, his world was enclosed by stone walls, with dirt crumbling out from between the rocks. To his right a set of six or seven wide steps led up to a wooden door with a window about the size of his hand, also barred, as if anyone could fit through it. The stone floor upon which he sat was covered in straw that smelled of mildew and a bunch of other stuff that Gary didn't want to think about. On the other side of the staircase, hidden in a corner of shadow and darkness, was a bundle of cloth or rags. He wasn't feeling brave enough to find out what it hid.

Reaching up gingerly to explore the knot at the back of his skull, he winced against the stabbing pain that even that small movement sent from one temple to the other. Between the aftereffects of the mead--let's be honest and call it a hangover, he thought grimly--and the crack to his head, he was lucky he still knew his own name. Obviously, this was some kind of prison. They called them dungeons, didn't they? But at least he was in one piece. What about Morgelyn? Closing his eyes, he still could see the angry faces that had encircled them both, and the absolute terror in her eyes. He had to get out of here and find her. Fighting skin-crawling fear and a wave of nausea, he wrapped his arms around his stomach and inched his way up the wall until he was standing. Maybe the bars in that window were loose. 

The room only spun a little bit when he left the security of the wall and took a few tentative steps toward the rectangle of faint, gloomy light that slanted in from the window. He was just gritting his teeth and reaching up for a bar when he heard a soft rustle. He turned in time to see the bundle of rags in the far corner move.

Stumbling back against the wall, he told himself that it was rats, only rats. But rats carried plague-infected fleas and where the hell was Cat and how had a nice guy like Gary ended up here in the first place and what if it wasn't rats at all? What if it was something worse? 

The bundle shifted again, stretched, elongated. In a sky he couldn't see the sun broke from behind the clouds, casting a clearer light into the tiny cell, enough for him to catch a color--dark red--and, improbably, a bare foot, also dark, and not just from dirt.

"Morgelyn?" It took six steps to reach her, and he knelt by her crumpled form. She was lying face down; he found her shoulder under a tangled fall of hair and shook it gently. "Hey, Morgelyn." He wasn't sure why he was whispering. He really didn't care whether the people who had put them here, wherever here was, heard him or not. "You okay? Huh? Wake up."

His first aid training kicked in; he found her pulse, put a hand on her back until he was sure she was breathing. Relieved to know that much, he went to work on the rough twine that bound her hands. It was looped five or six times around her wrists, pulled so tightly that the rope was cutting into her skin. Increasingly alarmed when she failed to respond to his calls, Gary fumbled with the tight knots, working at them for what seemed like hours. He thought he heard a small, mumbled something as he finally freed her hands and rubbed them a little, hoping to help with the circulation. 

"Morgelyn?" Nothing. 

"Okay, I'm just gonna turn you over." He did it as carefully as he could, hoping he wasn't making things worse. Dirt, straw, and soot clung to her face, and a filthy rag hung loose around her throat. A dark, ugly bruise stained her left cheekbone, and her sleeve had been torn--or cut, he realized when he saw dried blood underneath. Propping up her head, holding her right hand in his own, he tried to be gentle, to keep the escalating panic and fear out of his voice as he called her name over and over, determined to get a response. "Morgelyn, c'mon, you gotta wake up. Listen to me, it's okay, it's just me, it's Gary. Morgelyn? Hey, Morgelyn, c'mon on." 

Her eyes flew open and she sat up so quickly that he lost his balance and fell back. She bolted to her feet, stumbling backward, arms spread wide. Her breath came in rapid, audible gasps. 

"It's okay," he tried to reassure her through the fear that radiated from her, keeping him at a distance. He got up slowly, one hand out, palm up in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "It's all right, it's just me."

Framed in the square of light, she closed her eyes, breathing heavily as she slumped back against the wall. "Those men--and then the guards--" She brought one hand up to brush at the gunk on her face, found the rag around her throat, and fumbled with it. "I cannot--why won't my hands work?"

He moved closer. "Here, I got it." He undid the knot while she tried to flex her fingers, her frown deepening as she touched the cuts and indentations on her wrists. "They had you tied up pretty tight there," he said softly. The rag undone, he tossed it into the corner, and would have stepped back, but she grabbed his hand, her fingers stiff against his. 

"I thought they had--" Swallowing hard, she finally met his eyes in the dim light of the prison. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, and points of light did a firefly dance in his vision. "Yeah. Just feel like I've been run over by a monster truck." He backed up and sat down on the second step. "What happened? Do you know where we are?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything." Her voice was as wavery as Gary's vision. "Last night--I waited for you, but finally I was so tired I just dropped into bed." She brushed at her face, pushed her hair back over her shoulders, while he let his guilt over the previous evening settle somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. If he'd come back; if he hadn't gotten stinking drunk at Nessa's and...

Nessa. There was something he was supposed to remember, something he didn't want to, but Morgelyn was speaking again.

"This morning they came before I woke. They were in my house, all of them." Wrapping both arms around her stomach, she squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before continuing. "They dragged me out and threw torches on the roof and I tried to stop them but there were so many of them, so many hands. But you came--you came and--"

He couldn't look her in the eye. This was his fault. He should have been there sooner, should have stopped them. Elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.

"Are you very badly hurt?" Her soft touch on his shoulder startled him. When he shook his head, she clucked her tongue, then sat next to him on the wide stair. "When Simon hit you with his club, you dropped like a stone." She touched the bruise on her cheek, and he winced. "Then it all was quiet, so quiet. You were lying there, and the soldiers got down off their horses, and one of them said--I do not remember what he said, I--I cannot--"

"It's okay," he offered, feeble reassurance. 

She drew in a deep breath. "Something about the church and trying heretics. They think we are--they think I have done--everything Fergus feared is coming true."

A draft came through the window, tendrils of cold air. One or the other of them must have leaned in, because suddenly their shoulders were touching. Together they stared into the faint grey at the bottom of the stairs. Gary didn't know about Morgelyn, but all he saw were those distorted faces, blinded from the truth by their rage and fear. If he wasn't careful, he knew he'd look the same way if he ever saw any of them again.

"I tried to get to you, but--it was Simon again." She touched tentative fingers to the welts on her wrists, and her voice grew hard. "He pushed me down, face down in the violets. I was choking on them. I do not know if I can ever--I have never felt so--so--"

"Helpless?" Gary supplied. It sure as hell described the way he was feeling right now.

Morgelyn nodded. "He had his boot on my back, he pulled so hard on my arms. I understand that Mark was his friend, but Simon was never as cruel as this before--before--" She drew in a deep breath. "I helped Grandmother bring his two oldest into the world. And the baby, little Stephen, he was the last child my grandmother delivered, before she died. They are beautiful children." Her voice cracked, and Gary reached for her hand and squeezed it. He didn't know what else to do. "He has Lara, and three wonderful children, and I have never seen such hatred on a man's face, such ugliness. I don't remember much after that. I don't know where we are. I just remember his face, all their faces, and they were so _hateful_."

He wanted to kick the door down. He wanted to find those men, especially Simon, and let them have it, hurt them the way they'd hurt her. "I'm sorry. I should have been there--"

"You _were_ there--"

"--sooner."  
  
"You came just in time. The villagers--Simon, all of them--they would have killed me then and there." Her hand shook, both their hands were shaking, and Gary didn't know how to tell her how right she was, and how much he wished he'd done a better job of changing things. "How did you know?" Her voice steadier now, she shifted on the stair so they were face to face. "I know about Nessa's parties. Fergus usually staggers home at noon the next day. How did you know?"

He opened his mouth, the lie nearly automatic, but here, he had nothing to hide. "Your Grandmother's book showed up with Cat at Nessa's this morning. I dropped last night, too, only I did it on a bench in her manor. And then this morning Cat was there, with the book. In the back of it there was some other writing, and Fergus was able to read it. That's how we knew."

Wide-eyed, Morgelyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Grandmother?" she finally whispered.

"I don't think so. The writing was really different. I think it was in Latin. I think whoever wrote it, after--after you would have been--" He swallowed hard and had to look away, then he got up and paced over to the window, working out a crazy scenario in his head. Maybe this had really happened, once, and then someone had written about it, and that's why he'd been sent back, to fix it, like he'd fixed things for Jesse and Eleanor, and so whatever was in charge of his early edition had drop-kicked the little book out of the time continuum, just like it had drop-kicked him six hundred fifty years into the past. 

It was absolutely nuts. But it made about as much sense as anything else.

When he turned away from the window, Morgelyn was standing next to him, still looking a little dumbfounded by the whole thing. "I don't understand how such a thing is possible."

"Don't feel bad. I never understand it either." Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the wall. He didn't mention his theory to Morgelyn. The last thing he wanted to do was confuse her even more.

After a moment, she nodded. "Where is the book now?"

"Fergus has it. He went off to get help. I guess he didn't find any."

She glanced out the window, then turned back to him with all the stubborn insistence he'd gotten used to seeing in her face over the past few days--and years. "What did it say this morning?" 

"That doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

Pushing away from the wall with a sigh, Gary, too, took a look out the tiny window. All the pictures--those he'd imagined on his mad tear over the moor and through the forest, and the real ones, what had actually happened--churned through his head. "Please don't make me say it."

"You came back this morning because I was going to die." Morgelyn's tone was numb, her expression unreadable. 

Swallowing hard, he managed a nod. "Yeah."

"But now you do not know what will happen, not to me, not to you, no to any of us, and if you had not come you would not be hurt, or trapped here, and what worse is to come to you will be because of me."

Trying to reassure her somehow gave Gary more strength than he'd felt since he'd woken up. He put a steady hand on her shoulder. "There's always a way to change things, even now. Marissa says everything happens for a reason, and in this case, I know she's right. We're both here, and we're going to figure a way out."

"You're right. We are both alive, and where there is life--" Morgelyn turned around in a circle, surveying the cold walls. "There is supposed to be hope."

"There is. We just have to figure out how to get out of here." He tried to sound reassuring, though he wasn't sure he did a very good job of it. One more scan of the room, and he had a thought. He went to the top step and peered through the tiny window. He could barely make out a stairway on the other side of the door; when he craned his neck, he saw that two flat iron bars, each the size of a man's arm, barred the door. They were locked in. He pounded against the door with his shoulder, releasing all his frustration in two crashing collisions. The door didn't budge, but the room did. It tilted and slid, first to the right, then the left, as he sank down on the landing, cradling his head in his hands. He was worse than helpless. He was useless.

"That was not wise." Morgelyn stood over him, shaking her head, her tone rueful. 

"I had to try," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder.

"You hurt yourself again. If only we were home, I could..." Her voice trailed off and she stared off at some point beyond his shoulder. She looked so lost, so bereft, that he wanted to shake her and call the real Morgelyn back to herself. Where was the hope, where was faith she'd always--that Marissa had--but this wasn't Marissa, he reminded himself. "I have no home," she said in a hoarse whisper.

Still clutching his shoulder, Gary got to his feet and went down the stairs. He circled the small room, feeling the walls for something. He didn't know what. A trapdoor, maybe. "There has to be some way out of here." 

"It does not appear to be this window." 

They both started at the voice. 

"Fergus!" Morgelyn broke into a twisted smile at the sight of her friend, peering down at them between the window bars. Despite everything, Gary felt the corners of his mouth quirk into a grin; he'd never been so relieved to see that particular face.

"How do you fare? A ridiculous question, I know," he amended at the look Gary gave him. "But when I heard--God's breath, Morgelyn, what happened to you?" His eyes grew wide, and he stared at her in alarm. 

"Half the village happened to her," Gary growled. "What the hell is wrong with these people?"

"I am well, truly." Morgelyn glanced from Gary to Fergus, then ducked her head and tucked a couple loose strands of hair behind her ear. "Nothing is wrong with me that will not heal."

"You were right," Fergus told Gary, but he didn't take his eyes off Morgeln. "I should have come with you."

"'Tis well you did not, or you would be in this place, too." Morgelyn shivered as she threw a look around the room. 

"We need to get out of here," Gary said, stepping closer to the window and to Fergus, whose face was nearly squashed between the bars. "We need to get out of here _now_. Did you get help?"

Shaking his head, Fergus glanced back over his shoulder and shifted on his knees in the grass. "I tried, truly I did, but I cannot find Father Ezekiel in the village."

Morgelyn gasped. "Of course, Father Ezekiel will help us. He will not let this happen." She looked to Gary for reassurance, but he wasn't sure he could give it to her. Fergus was chewing on his lip, suddenly uneasy. There was something he wasn't saying. Gary could read it in his eyes.

"The book." Though he had to stand on tiptoe to do it, Gary grabbed one of the window bars, thrust his other hand at Fergus, who pulled back. "What does it say?"

Clamping his lips shut, Fergus shook his head. 

Gary's words came out in a frustrated growl. "I can't fix this if I don't know what's going to happen!"

"It has not changed," Fergus whispered, watching Morgelyn. "Except for the time, and the means. And you--" He turned back to Gary, and didn't need to finish. 

"I'm there, too." 

Fergus nodded grimly. 

Gary sighed. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire." When he saw the way Fergus winced, Gary's stomach gave a lurch. That meant--oh, great. 

"It cannot be." Morgelyn pushed her way in front of Gary, and she, too, reached out an open hand. It shook as she demanded, "Give it to me, Fergus. You must have read it wrong."

"You really are a pair of fools," Fergus said wearily. His head drooped. "The book is hidden away. If I were found to have such a thing, we would all be doomed. 'Tis bad enough that they took--" He stopped, and from the guilty look on his face, Gary knew he regretted whatever he'd been about to say.

"Took what?" Morgelyn demanded, her voice tight with more than exasperation. 

Fergus sighed. "When I couldn't find Father Ezekiel, I went to your house. Morgelyn..."

She turned just a little, hiding her face from both of them. "I know. I no longer have a house."

Shaking his head, Fergus scooted closer, reaching through the bars. "It rained earlier. Did you not know? The fire was out by the time I got there. You require a new roof, but the rest of the cottage still stands. I was relieved beyond all telling that I did not find you in it. I hoped you both had escaped." He flashed a sympathetic grimace at Gary, and completely missed the look of hope that flashed across Morgelyn's face.

Gary saw it, though, as she spun back around and placed one hand on his arm. They were both thinking the same thing. "Did you--did you find--" She swallowed. "Gary's things were in the trunk; was it--"

"Empty." Fergus's eyes went round again. "Everyone else was gone by the time I got there; I do not know what happened to any of it."

That news shouldn't have made things seem any worse than they were, but it sent ice water down Gary's back. "Who has it?" Morgelyn whispered, but neither man answered. Her hand dropped away from Gary's arm while he tried not to imagine what the person or people who did have the stuff were going to make of his clothes, his watch, and especially his newspaper. 

"How'd you find us?" he asked thickly.

"I made my way back to the village. I did not know where you were, either of you." Fergus's expression turned dark. "There was a group of them celebrating in the tavern, as if they had not had enough to drink already. They were stumbling home by the time I got there. And by the way, my friend, Simon Elders has the blackest eye I've ever seen." Fergus raised an eyebrow at Gary, who shook his head. They both turned to Morgelyn. "You?"

"It was an accident. My elbow..." She waved the issue away with a quick gesture, but Gary thought it was more discomfort than impatience. He nearly high-fived her, but figured he didn't want explain that now

Fergus flashed her a grin, but it barely lasted a second. "I knew they would not speak to me, but Declan followed them, and heard them say that Nessa's soldiers had brought you both here."

"Nessa? What does she have to do with this?" Morgelyn turned to Gary. 

"A lot, but I can tell you about that in a minute," he said. "We have more important things to worry about. We gotta get out of here. Where is here?" he asked Fergus, who was checking over his shoulder again.

"The old manor house." 

"We saw lights up here the other night," Gary told Morgelyn. "Somebody must have been getting this place ready."

"There is no prison in the village." Morgelyn looked around the dark room again and shivered. "No doubt it was either this, or shut us up in the rectory. But how could anyone have known that Mark would die?"

"I think they were just waiting for an excuse," Gary said, and wished he had seen that a lot more clearly a day ago.

"Considering what is to come, I believe they wanted to be away from the village." Once more, Fergus looked dark, glowering, with the shadows from the light outside falling across his face. 

"What do you mean, what is to come? Why won't you tell us?" Morgelyn's face held the same look it had two days ago when Fergus had first frightened her with his stories about France. Gary knew he didn't want to hear, he didn't need to hear, what was to come. 

"Lady Nessa had her guards stop the men who were trying to--" Fergus cleared his throat. "'Twas her guards who stopped them, and the villagers let it be stopped, because she has offered her help. She has hired a witchfinder, a man from the continent, who specializes in--in--" He broke off, leaving the thought unfinished. Morgelyn stepped back and slipped her hand into Gary's. 

The guest, Gary thought, squeezing her hand tight. Nessa's guest, the one he'd heard during his blundered spying mission the night before. "But how did she know when it was going to happen?" He believed Nessa was capable of a lot of logistics, but it was hard to believe she'd orchestrated Mark Styles's death, or the timing of the villagers' reaction.

"Perhaps she had spies in the village, or perhaps someone overheard us in the garden this morning." Fergus turned to Morgelyn. "I am sorry, my friend." 

"Don't be sorry, just get us out of here!" Gary demanded. 

"I cannot get in. There are guards here, and I am in danger of being found as it is."

"There has to be some other way." Gary waved his hand, impatient, tracing possibilities. "Father Ezekiel--or--or--"

"Robert," Morgelyn whispered.

"What?" both men asked.

She swallowed, and Gary felt her fingers tighten against his. He knew she was trying to banish the same thoughts he was: warnings about fire, and how it could burn. "Robert told me that when he was young, he used to play in these ruins with his friends. He may know some other way, some secret passage."

Fergus shook his head. "But Robert is blind now."

"Being blind isn't the same as being stupid," Gary snapped at Fergus. "Or helpless." 

"I merely meant--"

Morgelyn's eyes widened. "Shhh!" she hissed, and then Gary heard them, too; heavy footsteps clomping outside the door to their room, growing louder. The grass behind them rustled, and when Gary glanced back, Fergus was gone. The footsteps halted, metal rasped against wood as one iron bar, then the other, was lifted. Morgelyn's hand shifted in Gary's, but her grip didn't loosen. They both jumped when the door flew open.

There were two shapes, human but huge, framed in the doorway. Gary could see flickering torchlight behind the looming figures of the guards; the light that made it through the window behind him wasn't enough to illuminate their faces. The gruff, imperious voice, however, was perfectly clear. "Come."

Gary and Morgelyn exchanged sidelong, wide-eyed looks. Neither one moved.

"The prisoners will come forward!" The barking command echoed off the walls. One of the guards thudded down the steps and across the floor; he snapped his long-handled spear so that its sharp tip hovered less than an inch from Morgelyn's forehead. "You will obey, witch, or we will use force."

Gary batted the spear away. "She's not--"

"Silence!" The spear came up again, but this time the point rested on Gary's neck, touching the skin. Hard, dark eyes and a satisfied smile glinted at him, and he clamped his jaw shut, knowing that this guy was just waiting for an excuse to hurt someone.

"No," Morgelyn whispered. She dropped Gary's hand and stepped forward. "I will go with you." Gary didn't dare open his mouth, but he wanted to tell her just how huge a mistake this was.

"You will both come," the guard snarled. His partner seized Morgelyn roughly by the arm, pulling her toward the stairs, and though she kept twisting back to watch Gary, her feet kept up with the guard. The spear was pulled back and snapped upright, and gloved hands clenched Gary's arm, forcing him toward the door as well. He swallowed hard against the urge to tell the guy not to worry. There was no way he would have stayed down there now.   


* * *

  
_There are storm winds who bow down to nothing....  
The keepers of wisdom testify a heap of ashes   
means whatever was there went out burning._  
~ Carl Sandburg

Beyond the door of their cell, a narrow stairway led up to a bigger room. The room's back wall was gone, as if a giant had taken a huge bite out of it, roof, walls, and all. Fresh air slammed into Gary's lungs and the brighter light make him dizzy, the inrush too much for his overtaxed nerves. He couldn't think straight. Fragments of escape plans--run, twist away, head for the green grass, grab Morgelyn--jangled around in his head, crashing against insignificant details. The guard who gripped his arm was missing his pinky finger and smelled like wood smoke: the room they were walking through was empty but for two huge fireplaces and some shelves hanging crooked by single brackets from the walls. It must have been a kitchen. Up ahead, when Morgelyn tried to turn her head back to look at him, the other guard wrapped a hand around her neck, gloved fingers digging in so deeply that she flinched.

"None of yer spelling, witch. It cannot save you now." 

For a split second, Gary forgot the fact that he, too, was a prisoner, and tried to jump to the pair ahead. His own guard held firm; Gary stubbed a toe against the uneven paving stones of the floor and stumbled. One knee hit the floor. The guard dropped his spear with an exasperated grunt and grabbed the back of Gary's tunic; in the same moment, the other man turned to see what was going on, pulling Morgelyn around with him. She was clutching a handful of skirt that she'd lifted out of the way to get up the stairs; still kneeling, Gary could see her bare feet peeking out underneath. The guard followed Gary's gaze, grinned a feral grin, and slammed his thick-soled boot on her foot. Morgelyn gasped, then pressed her lips together until they disappeared into a pale line. 

"Leave her alone!" 

"I wouldn't, mate," said the gruff voice in his ear. "That's hardly the worst that will happen."

Morgelyn blinked hard at the open sky as her guard yanked her around and dragged her forward. Jaw clenched, Gary let the man haul him to his feet. 

They were led through the kitchen, through an arched doorway to another short hall. Here they turned and started down a longer hall. The fresh air and bright sunlight disappeared abruptly. This part of the old house was still intact, and a row of metal sconces hung from the walls. Two of them held lit torches. The place was as gloomy as the old black-and-white Dracula movie that Gary and Chuck had watched as kids, just to prove how brave they were. It had given Gary nightmares for weeks afterward, but he'd never thought he'd actually live one. 

Eerier than the shadowy gloom was the silence that oozed from every stone, like guilt, like ghosts, like accusations. Here, the guards made no threats, barked no commands, just forced Gary and Morgelyn along the hallway. Silence pressed down upon them all, muffling the snap of boots, the shuffling of Gary's soft-soled shoes, the faint slap of Morgelyn's bare feet and the swishing hem of her dress. 

Gary counted eight closed doors, four on each side of the hallway, before the hands on his arm and at his back jerked him to a halt. The ninth door stood at the end of the hall, a little wider than the others, and the guard who'd brought Morgelyn rapped once before swinging it open and pushing her through. The door's unoiled hinges fractured the silent air of the hall. When the back of his tunic was released, Gary wrenched his arm free and hurried in on his own two feet, so intent on making sure Morgelyn was unhurt that at first he didn't see who else was in the room. 

She pulled away from the guard when he tried to grab her again, and jumped when Gary touched her elbow. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was okay, but stopped when he saw that her jaw had gone slack. Morgelyn stared in shock at the man who sat in one of two sumptuously upholstered chairs on the opposite side of a huge, ornately carved table. Long fingers laced on the table top, a gaunt-faced priest regarded them solemnly with his hooded, unreadable eyes.

"Father Malcolm?" Morgelyn's whisper twisted through the air. "Why are you here?"

He cleared his throat, a tight, nervous sound. "I am here as the Church's representative," he said in his reedy voice. "In cases of heresy--"

"Heresy?" Morgelyn sagged backward, and Gary gripped her elbow tightly, partly to hold her up, partly to remind her that he was there. Knowing about impending doom because of an early edition and being there when it actually happened were two entirely different matters.

Still searching for a way out, he took in the rest of the room. Another chair, its arms and back straight, its seat unpadded, stood on their side of the table. On either side of the table, two thick white candles with triple wicks did a better job of lighting the room than the pair of narrow windows off on the left wall. There was also a fireplace, where new flames were just beginning to lick pine logs. An assortment of books and a small chest took up one end of the table. With the guards between them and the only door, there was no chance of escape.

"You are to be offered a chance to confess your sins before you are--" Malcolm's gaze slid away from the dumbfounded woman before him, to a pile of books and a small wooden chest that sat at the end of the table. "--questioned," he finished. 

Gary gulped in the air, scented heavily with wood smoke and candle wax. He knew what was supposed to happen at the end of this. He hoped that, with Fergus's help, they could escape fate. But what would happen in between? The paper hadn't said, and now, remembering how Fergus told Morgelyn she'd deny her own grandmother just to avoid this kind of questioning, he could feel fear rising in a tide around their ankles. What else was going to happen before this was over?

"Why do you have my books?" Morgelyn asked, the faintest crack in her quiet question, and Gary felt the shudder that ran through her. 

"They are evidence."

This time it was Gary's mouth that fell open. "Evidence of what?"

"Witchcraft," Malcolm said with a long, slow blink. "Consorting with the evil one. Heresy."

"Because she read a book?"

"Because she read these books."

Morgelyn shook her head. "No, Father Malcolm, you know better. You know I have always had these books. My grandmother--" She choked off the end of the sentence. 

Gary looked the pile over, but didn't see his own paper or the Dragon's Eye. But his relief was only momentary. There were too many other things going wrong, and if Father Malcolm thought these innocuous books were evidence of evil deeds, it wasn't going to matter if they never found the real magical stuff.

Once more Malcolm cleared his throat, then unlaced his fingers and pushed himself to his feet. "It is true," he said, "I have known you since you were small. I baptized you from your mother's arms. A mother I could not bury on consecrated ground," he added pointedly. It was bait, but Morgelyn didn't take it. Probably too shocked, Gary thought. 

"Of course," Father Malcolm continued after a moment, "that was not your fault. But since then I have watched your growth with some apprehension. You are a strong young woman. Perhaps too strong. Perhaps your will has overcome your better nature. I can tell you, however, that you are not strong enough for what is to come." He moved around the table, stopped in front of it, and looked down at Morgelyn, ignoring Gary. But Gary wasn't about to give ground. He scooted closer to his friend, slipping his hand from her elbow to the small of her back. 

"End this," Malcolm said, and his voice was pleading and stern and a little bit eager, Gary thought, though that might have been his own imagination. "You need but admit your guilt and give your soul over to God."

Gary could feel the shaky breath that Morgelyn drew in, but her voice didn't waver. "I have nothing to confess." Some of her hair fell from its tangles and brushed his hand as she shook her head for emphasis. 

"Perhaps you could persuade her." Malcolm fixed Gary with his hooded stare, and Gary saw thinly-veiled fear. 

"No," Gary said through gritted teeth, and felt Morgelyn's back relax, just a fraction, under his hand. "She hasn't done anything wrong. You ought to be talking to the men who tried to burn her house down, the ones who nearly killed her."

His gaze passing over Gary once again before flicking back to Morgelyn, the priest pursed his lips tightly. "Give up this chance, and there is nothing I can do to help you."

Bullshit, Gary wanted to say. Malcolm could do whatever he wanted; he could let them go, he could talk to the villagers, or to Nessa. The man had some kind of power here, didn't he? 

But in the next instant, he found out he was wrong. The door creaked open behind them, and Gary turned as another man, someone he'd never seen before, stepped in. As tall as Gary, he wore the same robes as the priests except that they were tan instead of black or dark brown. Gary couldn't tell if the man was prematurely grey, or older than his smooth, sallow skin and round blue eyes would suggest. Despite the medieval getup, he walked into the room like a CEO taking over his boardroom, all business, no greetings, brushing past the guards as if they were furniture, not deigning to notice the way Malcolm scurried back behind the table. From the blank, wondering look on Morgelyn's face, Gary assumed she'd never seen the guy before either.

Carefully placing a sheaf of papers, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink on the table, the newcomer moved to stand next to Father Malcolm. Finally, he spared a look at the guard who stood behind Gary. "You did not bind her hands?" It sounded like a casual question, but the displeasure on his face was clear. Gary thought of the knots he'd had to untie, saw the way Morgelyn's fingers brushed gingerly over the welts on her wrists, and fixed the man with a glare of his own.

"They were bound, sir." The voice that had barked commands in the basement was only a shadow of itself here.

"Obviously they are not any longer, and there is nothing to stop her mouth." The man raised a mild eyebrow. "Do you not fear her curses?"

"No, that's just the point," Gary cut in. "She wouldn't--she couldn't--we shouldn't be here. I don't know who you are, but this is all a huge mistake."

The man stared at Gary, radiating flint-edged strength, and Gary flashed back to something Marissa had said once about herself: "Stone--it breaks, but it doesn't bend." Dismissing the interruption without a word, the man turned to Morgelyn, and Gary flinched at the thought of flint on stone. 

"Sit down." He pointed a smooth, manicured finger at the chair on their side of the table. 

Morgelyn shook her head, but her voice, too quiet, betrayed her fear. "I would rather--"

"Sit."

After a moment's hesitation, she stepped away from Gary's hand and sank to a tentative perch on the edge of the seat. Gary would have followed to stand as close as possible, but the man's hand flicked once in the direction of the closest guard, who grabbed Gary with a firm, warning grip around his bicep. 

"You know why you are here." The newcomer's statement was addressed to Morgelyn. A faint breeze stirred the papers on the table, and he rested his hand on them while he waited for a response. Gary squinted, trying to remember where he'd heard that voice before, that pudding-smooth confidence. There weren't a lot of possibilities. Nessa's special guest, the one he'd heard from the hallway. His stomach clenching, Gary flicked a look at the guard who stood behind Morgelyn's chair, just to confirm that he did, indeed, wear the insignia of the golden hawk. Nessa's guards. Nessa's guest. 

"I know that any accusations against me are false." A quick toss of her head, and Morgelyn fixed Father Malcolm with an accusing glare. "What I do not know is why anyone would believe them." 

"And yet, the men in your garden this morning believed them enough to want to kill you. You have been charged with crimes of heresy, witchcraft, and consorting with the devil, both formally," he said, nodding at the papers under his hand, "and, from what I have heard about this morning's events, informally. You were fortunate that Lady Nessa heard of your predicament and sent her soldiers." 

"Fortunate? Are you nuts?" Gary asked incredulously. His arm muscles bunched, tensing against the hand that held him. 

"Who are you?" Morgelyn's eyes were round with fear. "What right do you have to hold us here?"

"My name," the man said, smoothing the grey hair back from his temple, "is Brother John Banning. I am here to determine your guilt in this matter. Considering the evidence, I think you would be wise to take your priest's advice and confess immediately."

Gary still couldn't figure out what it was they wanted her to admit to. These weren't ignorant villagers. Surely they didn't believe that Morgelyn could have killed Mark Styles, not with poison, and certainly not with mere words. He spoke louder, determined to stop this before it went any further. "She doesn't have to confess; she hasn't done anything. And you still haven't answered the rest of her question. Why are we here? What's going on?"

Banning fixed Gary with an arched eyebrow. "I have been brought here because of my considerable skills, so that I may discern whether or not the people of Gwenyllan have been brought under the influence of Satan's evil by this woman and her use of witchcraft."

"And your way of finding out is to burn her out of her home and beat her up?" Gary's voice had risen far beyond the reasonable tone everyone else had adopted. This went way beyond reason, about as far beyond reason as Chicago was from Cornwall. "That's real helpful. That'll get you the facts."

Banning's lips curled upward, transforming his smooth features into a horrible mockery of a smile. "Those were villagers who committed those unfortunate acts."

"Unfortunate?" Gary's disbelieving voice echoed off the stone walls, and it didn't help the pounding of his head at all. "They were gonna kill her!"

"They nearly did kill Gary," Morgelyn added.

"Then it was lucky my guards came along when they did." Banning nodded at the men behind Gary.

His guards? Gary's earlier assumption must have been right. He must be Nessa's guest, and her plan--the fragments he could still remember from the night before--Gary's vision went swimmy again as he realized how carefully this had all been orchestrated. He saw Morgelyn staring at him from just a few feet away, but it might as well have been an ocean between them for all he'd done to help so far. They were in over their heads, way over their heads, fathoms deep, but he had to keep trying. "Look, those people this morning, what they did was--"

"Understandable, though unwise. They believe that they have been cursed, their families and friends sickened." Banning turned to Morgelyn. "Through your deeds."

Morgelyn gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that Gary saw her knuckles redden, then pale. "That is ridiculous! They are wrong."

"Are they?" Banning regarded her for a few tense, silent seconds, daring her to answer.

"Yes, of course they are, I--" 

His eyes narrowed, and Morgelyn faltered. Gary swallowed, trying to think of something, anything, that would stop this charade. "Not everyone believes that," he said, thinking of Anna, of Nia and her brother, of Declan, and--"What about Father Ezekiel? You need to talk to him. He'll tell you this is all a mistake."

"Perhaps he will." The thin, ghastly smile appeared again, then was gone. "He will be here shortly to give his testimony."

"Testimony?" Morgelyn breathed. "Against me?"

No, that was wrong, it had to be. Gary refused to believe it.

"He overheard you telling Mark Styles that he would die unless he did as you wished," Father Malcolm said coldly. "In light of the funeral Mass I will be saying tomorrow, I consider such an outburst strong evidence indeed."

"That isn't evidence!" Impossibly, the guard who'd been holding Gary tightened his grip as Gary's free arm waved through the air. "She was trying to get him to take some medicine that would help him. It wasn't a threat, or a curse, or anything but trying to save his life."  
  
Banning pressed his long lips together in a wry, too-red line. "That might be true, if the death of Mark Styles was the only matter we were given to judge. There are others, though that is perhaps the most illustrative."

"If you're the judge, who's the jury?" The curious looks they all gave him reminded Gary that he wasn't in an American courtroom, that America didn't even exist. 

"I am merely here to collect the evidence and advise the village leaders. They will conduct your trial and punishment based upon my recommendations." 

Punishment? Gary's heart pounded in his ears. If he'd had the Dragon's Eye, he would have found a way to use it then and there to take Morgelyn with him to the Twentieth Century, consequences be damned. 

"My experience in tracking down witches is considerable," Banning went on, "but I have no power to convict anyone. That will be up to the leaders of Gwenyllan, including Father Malcolm, once I have finished questioning you both." He lifted his hand, indicating the pile of leather-bound books at the end of the table. "These books, they are yours?"

"Yes, they are mine," Morgelyn said, her voice taking on an exasperated edge. "I use them to help people, to make poultices and draughts that will heal injuries and cure illnesses."

"You can read these?"

"Of course I can!"

Banning lifted an eyebrow at that. "And you admit they contain spells and charms for--as you would have it--healing? Could they not also be used for causing illness?"

"There are no spells in there." Morgelyn's voice was stronger than it had been, rising to the challenge. "Have you read them? They are written--many of them by monks--to teach people to use God's gifts, God's own creation, to heal His people. The devil did not create rosemary and lavender and tansy; God did. And I am using what He created to do what Our Lord asks us to do in the scriptures, to heal and to comfort the sick."

"But some of these plants could be used to bring harm, could they not?"

"Of course they could, but I would never do that!"

"Both Mark Styles and his daughter are dead, and his son has been ill as well. How did you cause these events?"

"She didn't. That boy is alive because of her," Gary insisted. 

"The Styles family is not the only one affected. Others lie ill in the village today," Father Malcolm said. "At least three adults and one child have been taken with this illness, though no more cases have been brought to our attention since your arrest."

Distress seemed to widen Morgelyn's features; she looked wildly from the inquisitor to Gary and back. "If people are sick, you have to set me free. They need help. Let me go to them, I know what to do."

Banning struck with the alacrity of a rattlesnake. "No doubt because you caused the trouble in the first place."

Morgelyn was all the way forward, on the edge of her chair. "Who is it, who is ill?"

Banning tilted his head, and a shaft of light from the window hit the side of his face, illuminating the sharp cheekbones and jawline. "That is a matter which no longer concerns you. If you did not wish them to fall ill, you should not have cursed them in the first place."

"I spoke no curse!"

"In addition to these events, you were seen last night with a cat, which I assume is your familiar."

No, Gary thought, no, Cat was there to help them, to protect her. "It's not her cat, it's mine. You can't think just because--it's my cat," he insisted. Banning's shrug was barely visible, and Gary's heart sank even farther at his next words.

"We will locate that animal soon enough, and determine the extent of its evil. Furthermore," he said, turning back to Morgelyn, "you have spoken ill of a man whose garden died the next week; you have infected the minds of children with ridiculous, unholy stories..."

"The same stories you no doubt heard from your own mother." Morgelyn's voice rose, higher than it had climbed when she was sparring with Fergus. "How does telling stories to children make me evil?"

Though he understood Morgelyn's desperate determination to make them see the truth, Gary wanted to tell her that it was hopeless trying to talk to this guy. He had the same intractable expression that Gary had seen on bigots, on fanatics--on those suburban kids who'd wanted to beat each other up because of the same kinds of differences that the villagers, and now these far more powerful men, had used to blame Morgelyn. 

"If you are found to have practiced witchcraft," Banning said in a voice that said he had no doubt she had, "we must do what Our Lord requires. Father Malcolm?"

"The Book of Exodus commands, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" Malcolm finished promptly, coldly. But he didn't look at Morgelyn when he said it. 

Morgelyn briefly closed her eyes, and Gary couldn't tell if she was trying to pray, or to escape in the only way she could. They needed help from outside, and they needed it now--now that Banning was reaching for the small chest on the table and opening it. Gary held his breath while the examiner pulled out what looked like a pair of tongs, or pinchers. Something made of iron, and made to grip. Other tools, unidentifiable but menacing, glinted from the interior of the chest. Banning walked methodically over to the fireplace and placed the tool's handle on the stone hearth, the business end just in the growing flames. When he turned back to them, it seemed that some of the light from the fire had been caught and held in his eyes. He looked alive, really alive, for the first time. The guard by the door grinned, Malcolm blanched, and Banning asked Morgelyn, in a soft, vivid tone, "When did you fall? When did you first give your heart over to the evil one?"

Her whispered answer, stiff with shock, took Gary's breath with it. 

"Never."

Banning took a step closer. "Was it when you survived the pestilence that killed your neighbors?"

Morgelyn slid back in the seat, her shoulders coming up in self-defense. "I am not the only one who survived." Her voice was still hushed. Gary knew the inquisitor had hit on a weak spot, her uncertainty as to why she'd lived through the plague, and he realized that the light in Banning's eyes was one of triumph. He was sure he'd won. 

"Father Malcolm says you are the only one in this village who had the illness and lived."

Malcolm spoke up quickly, watching Morgelyn, but also checking Banning's reaction from the corner of his eye. "Your grandmother loved you very much, unnaturally so. She would have done anything to save you. I have long wondered if perhaps she promised her own life, and your own soul, when your natural course was run, to the dark powers in exchange for your survival."

"No," Morgelyn said with desperate conviction. "She would never, never do that!" 

For some reason, Gary's gaze landed on her hands. They were trembling, and as he watched, she pulled them into her lap and clasped them together, staring straight ahead through teary eyes. It was, in his mind, Marissa's gesture, it fell in that catalog, and it nearly split him in two. He took a step toward her, but he didn't make it. A yank on his shoulder spun him around; a fist to his solar plexus doubled him over.

"Gary!" When he looked up, clutching his stomach and trying to catch his breath, Morgelyn was on her feet, eyes wide with alarm. He opened his mouth to tell her not to worry, but nothing would come out. Instead, he concentrated on breathing for a few seconds, in and out, past the hurt.

"He did nothing! How can you accuse me of hurting people while your men do this?" Morgelyn's voice rang off the walls, and she stepped closer, reaching out toward Gary. Still bent over, hands on his knees, his head pounding once again, he saw, but couldn't stop, the second guard, who left his post and pushed her roughly back toward the chair. She caught herself on the armrest as she staggered back.

"Now, now, child, sit down," Father Malcolm said, hurrying from his place behind the table. "There is no need for anyone to be hurt."

Gary's eyes met Morgelyn's when he straightened up; he could tell that she, too, was fighting the manic urge to laugh at that comment. The guard closest to her wrapped an arm around a rip in her sleeve and pushed her to the front of the chair.

"Sit." Banning stood less than two feet from Morgelyn, once more glaring down at her from his height advantage. Her jaw tightened, and for a minute Gary thought she'd defy him then and there. He braced himself, checking the guards' positions, knowing a fight was hopeless, but knowing, too, that a time was quickly approaching when choosing his battles would be a moot point. They were already being chosen for him, narrowed down to a precious few opportunities to change destiny. 

Father Malcolm cleared his throat. Breaking eye contact with Banning, Morgelyn looked over at her priest, whose lips twitched as he looked from Morgelyn to the fire and back. After another breathless moment, the guard released her arm and she sat down slowly, like a balloon with a slow leak. The hopeless resignation in her shoulders left Gary feeling as though he was sinking in quicksand. Damn it. Where was Fergus; where was Ezekiel? Why hadn't the paper suggested some way out? 

"As for you," Banning said to Gary, his cold glance barely taking him in before sliding away again, "you will be silent, or you will be removed." He reached behind him and produced a piece of parchment from the bottom of his pile, and held it out to Morgelyn. "Understand that I am here to save your soul, as much as the lives of the villagers."

Morgelyn took the paper. Gary craned his neck, but he couldn't make out the words, just the way his friend's face greyed over. "What is this?"

"You can save us all a great deal of trouble if you admit your wrongdoing. Your heresy. Sign the confession, lass, and at least your soul will be purified. You can make your peace with God and be shriven."

That sounded too damn final. "No, wait--" Gary began, but Morgelyn cut him off, shaking her head. 

Her voice quavered, but she met Banning's gaze with an eerie calm. "I will not betray my soul to eternal damnation with a lie to save myself earthly torment." She let the papers fall to the floor.

Brave, but totally naive. Gary knew it as soon as he saw the light that flashed in Banning's eyes, the slow, small, utterly satisfied curve of his lips, more sneer than smile, at Morgelyn's defiance. Whatever was coming next, this guy was going to enjoy it. Gary tried to get closer, but the guard wrenched his arm behind his back.

It was Malcolm who spoke. "It would be best if you confess now. Look into your heart. You know there is evil there, for it lies in the heart of every woman."

Morgelyn sounded as hurt and betrayed as if he'd slapped her. "No, I do not believe that."

"--and whether it is through your own free confession, or more indirect methods, it is our moral duty to extract it."

"Extract it?" Gary asked, dumbfounded. He pulled the guard a few inches forward as he tried to get closer. "What the hell does that mean?"

Banning glanced over at him with triumph shining even more fiercely in his eyes. "Hold your tongue. Interrupting this process--" His breath whistled slightly through a gap in his front teeth, and he nodded to the guard, who twisted Gary's arm even tighter. "--can be very painful."

"I don't care what you do to me; it doesn't change the fact that your process is a crock of--"

"Not for you." Banning's gaze flickered across the room to where Morgelyn, on her feet again, watched with one hand over her mouth. "Not just yet."

Behind his back, his hand clenched into a fist despite the guard's grip. There had to be something he could say or do that would stop this. The whole room was cold with fear, with evil. But the source sure as hell wasn't Morgelyn. 

Most of Gary's day to day run-ins with disaster were due to sheer accidents--bad timing, carelessness, plain old bad luck. Most of the criminals were driven to their choices by circumstance, and though he couldn't condone their bad choices, he could understand the misplaced desperation that drove them. Only rarely, very rarely, had he seen the kind of terrible joy, the sheer cruelty, that radiated from Banning as he turned, slowly, until his attention was focused solely on Morgelyn. The move was calculated to instill fear--no, terror--and Gary felt it sweep through the room like a tidal wave. Even the guard loosened his grip, and Malcolm made a tiny noise deep in his throat. Despair, cold and numbing, threatened to engulf them all. 

"Your priest was right, my dear," Banning finally said. He moved stealthily, confident as a panther, until Morgelyn had to crane her neck to hold her defiant stance. "Every heart holds some evil. If yours is not written in this document, then by all means, tell us what it is, and how you have sinned against God to bring such devastation upon the good people of Gwenyllan." He emphasized "good", automatically excluding Morgelyn, and Gary supposed himself, from that category. Banning was building walls between people, dividing them. This was the heart of Nessa's plan. All her talk about breaking chains and snapping links was about dividing the village in order to conquer it.

"I have never wished them ill, never wanted evil to visit us." Gripping the armrest behind her, Morgelyn leaned back, away from Banning. "It comes often enough without our wishing."

"Never?" Banning asked. Another step, and he was able to reach out a hand and touch her cheek, her hair. Gary felt the blood leave his face. "Not even when they pointed out your differences? Taunted you?" Finally, Banning's fingers traced the rip in her sleeve. "Not even when they wished you ill in return?"

Morgelyn winced; her mouth opened and closed twice before any words came out. "They--they never did, until--until now." She reached up, and Gary thought she meant to brush his hand away, but Banning grabbed it, squeezing her fingers. 

"And what," he asked, his voice hardening to a razor's edge, "did you wish on them this morning?"

"I was praying that they would _stop_."

"Do you call yourself blameless?" Banning squeezed until his own knuckles went white, and Gary was afraid he was going to break her fingers. He lowered his face until it nearly touched Morgelyn's. "Choose your words with caution, woman, for blasphemy is also a sin."

Morgelyn tried to pull back, but she didn't have anywhere else to go, and Banning was crushing her fingers. "It is not blasphemy if it is true! I have never cursed anyone!"

For an unbearable moment, Banning's stony gaze seemed to petrify the entire room. "A vengeful temper," he murmured. "Someone with that much fire inside--a woman of unseemly passions and anger--can easily be led down the wrong path." Finally he released Morgelyn's hand, then wiped his own on the rough cloth of his robe as he took a step back. "Especially if she is already halfway there by way of her ancestry," he murmured, staring at Morgelyn's hands, one cradled in the other. He lifted his gaze to the priest. "Is that not true, Father Malcolm?" 

The priest nodded. "Search your heart, child. This is no time for false displays of bravado. Our Lord is willing to take you to Himself if you only tell us the truth. All of the truth." There was more of an edge, less fear in his voice now, as if watching Banning terrorize an innocent woman had leant him strength.

Sick from their implications, Gary fumed. Who didn't have regrets; who hadn't made mistakes? These men weren't going to stop until they had something, anything that they could hand the villagers as justification for murder. "You can't do this," he insisted. At least he could try to keep this guy's attention off her for as long as possible. "She's telling you the truth!" 

Banning wheeled on him. "I have to ask myself, what kind of man would defend such a woman?" he said. "No one seems to know who you are, Master Hobson, or where you came from. But I am sure your friend can help us understand." Shifting his attention back to Morgelyn, he made a careless, offhand gesture in Gary's direction. "Do you deny that he is here at your behest? That he did, in fact, come not through a shipwreck, but at your summons?"

Lie, Gary thought. For the love of God, Morgelyn, _lie_. 

"I--" she began, and stopped, transfixed by Banning's stare. He looked like he wanted to take a can opener to her head and just yank it all out. And if they weren't careful, he could. Gary's heart twisted in his chest. Morgelyn did look guilty. She still thought his presence here was her responsibility, her doing, and in her determined honesty, she would condemn herself the moment she tried to explain.

"My being here has nothing to do with her," Gary said, too loudly, trying to draw their fire back upon himself. "I was lost, and she took me in because she's kind." That much was true, and he let it show in his face, hoping that Father Malcolm, at least, would be convinced. 

But as he finished the statement, Banning snapped his fingers at the guards, his eyes gone to flint. "This will never work. Take her consort away."

"My what?" Morgelyn yelped.

"No, no, you got it all wrong." This whole thing was all wrong. And Gary wouldn't, couldn't leave Morgelyn with these people. "I'm not going anywhere." He planted his feet on stone, even as the guard readjusted his grip and tried to pull him toward the door. 

"You have no choice. Please, do not make this difficult." The word was loaded with meaning; Banning stroked Morgelyn's arm. "For any of us."

Morgelyn's hand came up to brush Banning away again, but she met his eyes and froze. Everyone in the room froze. Gary's thoughts churned in a horrible circle. They would hurt her if he tried to stay; they would hurt her if he left. How the hell was he going to stop this? Why was he here, if he couldn't?

"Gary."

He wrenched his glare from Banning to Morgelyn, who turned to him, pleading through fearful brown eyes.

"It is...I will be..." But she couldn't say she would be okay, he couldn't let her say it, because that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Panic flooded his mind; every cell in his body was screaming at him to get Morgelyn and get out of this steel trap, _now_ , and he wrenched his arm free of the guard and reached for her. 

It all happened in an instant, but his brain registered every detail--it would replay them for a long time to come. There was movement in the periphery of his vision, a blur speeding toward his outstretched arm, but Banning raised a hand, flicked a finger, and it swerved at the last instant. Gary's fingers brushed Morgelyn's, but before he could reach her hand the blur came down on her arm and there was a hard thunk. Gary was yanked back by the neck of his tunic and Morgelyn doubled over, clutching her arm to her stomach with a sharp cry of pain. The shorter guard, the one who wasn't holding him, let the club he'd used swing back and forth from his hand, a smug smile on his face. 

"No, stop this!" Gary yelled, as much to whatever deity might be listening and willing to intervene as at their captors. He tried to take another step toward Morgelyn, but he next thing he knew he was on his knees, his hands shooting out to stop himself from landing face down on the floor. There was snickering behind him from the guard who had driven his cudgel into the back of his legs.

"Leave him alone!" Morgelyn tried to get to Gary; a swirl of red skirt brushed his face as he tried to push himself up off the floor, but Banning grabbed her from behind and spoke into her ear, whispering something that Gary couldn't hear between the ringing in his ears and the half-sobs Morgelyn was choking back. Rough hands hauled Gary to his feet and out the door. The last thing he saw was Morgelyn, standing with her eyes squeezed shut against whatever Banning was saying to her while his long fingers dug into her upper arms. The guards turned Gary around despite his protest, the door creaked closed, and he felt stone under his heels as they dragged him away.  


* * *

  
_It is only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all._  
~ William James

The pace at which the guards pulled him down the hall was too much for Gary; his legs were too bruised to work properly. But the indignity of being half-dragged through the echoing silence was nothing compared to his panic over what was going to happen to Morgelyn back there alone. None of the threats, spoken or not, had been idle, and Gary knew that he hadn't simply imagined the fierce delight blossoming over Banning's features as he'd pushed Morgelyn deeper and deeper into her worst fears. And he'd wanted Gary out of the room because--because--

His legs gave out on him entirely, and he would have dropped to his knees if not for the guards' grip on his upper arms. The taller of the two snarled a curse as they stopped to pull Gary upright again, and Gary took the chance, slipping free, spinning and stumbling back down the hall. 

"Damn!" He heard the curse behind him, too close; knew that they wouldn't let him get back in, but he had to try. He was so intent on reaching the end of the hall that he fell backward when one of the side doors flew open in front of him, and out stepped Father Ezekiel. His cragged face swam in Gary's vision like a disapproving ghost.

"Sorry, Father," one of the guards muttered. He started to drag Gary away, but the priest held up a hand.

"Wait."

"Cru--Zeke, Father Ezekiel--you have to go, you have to stop them, M-Morgelyn, she's here, they're--" Gary struggled to stand on his own two feet, one hand outstretched in entreaty. 

Implacable, Ezekiel turned his attention to the guards. "I wish to speak to this man. Bring him in this room."

"But--" Gary began, pointing down the hall. A crack of light spilled into the hallway; the door at the end wasn't completely closed. He snatched at that tiny bit of hope as if it were a life preserver; if he could get down there, he could get in. He fought anew to get free, but now both guards had their hands on him. 

"Sir, Brother Banning said we were to take him to the cell."

"I have the authority to collect evidence in this case. It will take only a short time to question him, and then you can return him to the cell." Ezekiel spun on his heel and left the others to follow him. Gary, his feet finally under his stiff knees, was prodded through the open door. Father Ezekiel waited with one hand on the door and asked the guards to wait outside. Gary experienced another too-brief moment of hope, then realized that the room's window was simply a narrow slat, wider inside than out, and the only door was the one the guards would be monitoring. And he couldn't leave Morgelyn, he thought wildly. Surely that was where hope lay, surely this man wouldn't let what was about to happen--what could already be--

"We can't stay here!" Breathless, Gary made a grab for the priest's robes, but he backed away, staring at him as if he was a lunatic. "She's--they're--please--"

"Sir, this man is dangerous." The taller guard still hesitated in the doorway. "He has been accused in crimes of witchcraft."

"You will wait outside," Ezekiel said, his granite voice brooking no argument, and he closed the door in their faces. 

Rubbing his arms to dislodge phantom fingers, it only took Gary a moment to absorb the details of the room: the same grey stone, the same cold air, same smell of decay as in the one he'd just left. A ruined bird's nest spilled from the unused fireplace, and a small bundle wrapped in coarse fabric sat on the floor in front of the hearth. The table in this room was small and lopsided, and there were no candles. The only light came from the narrow window, which must have faced south; sunlight streamed in and cast Father Ezekiel's face in sharp relief. He studied Gary in a way that took him back to Christmas, two years ago, and the way Crumb had looked at him when he thought Gary was a serial bomber. This time, Gary didn't squirm. He'd had enough of interrogator's tricks. Stiff and as tall as he could make himself on his battered legs, he waited for the other man to break the silence.

Finally, Father Ezekiel drew in a quick breath and moved past Gary to stand near the fireplace, his strides short but purposeful. He toed the bundle thoughtfully for a moment, then raised his head and pinned Gary with a piercing stare. 

"It is you, is it not?" he asked in a quiet voice that was hard as steel. "Somehow, it is you."

"What's me?" Taken aback, Gary lost his tenuous grip on his composure.

"She is not the witch." Ezekiel's eyes had gone hard as slate. "You are. And you are letting her take the blame."

The accusation sucked all the air from Gary's chest, and for a moment he couldn't find breath to answer. "I-I wouldn't. I would never--" 

No, wait, maybe he should let them think exactly that. Banning's face as he'd closed in on Morgelyn flashed in Gary's mind, and he took a step backward, swaying, but there was no support, nothing he could lean on. "If you really believe that, why aren't you in there stopping them?"

"Because I know things, but I do not understand, and I am not sure I believe, what I do know. Because I want to see what kind of man would bring a woman, a woman like her, down to hell with him." Mouth agape, Gary shook his head, but Ezekiel bent down, fending off the unvoiced protest with a wave of his hand. He picked up the bundle and hefted it onto the table, steadying its rocking motion with a calm hand. "Father Malcolm told me last night that Lady Nessa was going to bring that--that--" He nearly spat the word. "--that witchfinder--into town, but neither of us thought it would happen so soon. I planned to warn Morgelyn this morning--but I suppose Styles's death took away that advantage."

"Look, whatever you think about me, if you don't want her hurt, then you have to get in there right now. That man, Father, he's going to hurt her."

"I know the type," Ezekiel said simply, and the weight of years seemed to pull down his features. His sigh was heavy as well. 

"You knew? Then how could you let it get this far? I thought you cared about her!"

Ezekiel looked at Gary curiously, then gave a small shrug, as if it did not matter to him what Gary knew now. What the heck was this guy up to?

"Declan stumbled into the rectory at first light, just as Lady Nessa's messenger arrived with a private summons for Father Malcolm. My esteemed nephew had just ended his revels, and he heard Anna Styles screaming for help when she found her husband dead on her doorstep. He told me he had seen Robin Elders and his friends start off for Morgelyn's cottage, and he had heard what they intended to do. By the time I caught up with them, Nessa's guards had taken you both away." A flash of something--it might have been regret--crossed his face, and was quickly replaced with a wry, bitter smile. "I spoke to the men, calmed and dispersed them, made sure the fire was put out by the rain. Then I went inside. I thought that perhaps I could find the books Morgelyn put so much stock in and thereby show Malcolm--and the others, once they'd calmed down--that they were harmless."

"So she has a few books!" Gary exploded, angry at the thought of even that small betrayal, the handing over of Morgelyn's precious books to a man like Malcolm. "That doesn't mean she's a witch!"

"Of course it does not."

"Then go in there and tell them." Gary stabbed a finger at the door. "They'll believe you."

Ezekiel's jaw worked for a moment, and he cast his gaze out the window. "They would no doubt be quite happy to believe what I can tell them now, which is why I do not wish to tell them anything at all. Some of the books that I found contained spells, magical legends, rubbish about druids and dragons. That infernal peddler ought to be the one confined here for bringing such nonsense into our midst."

"That doesn't mean--"

"Of course it means--or it will to them." Ezekiel's jaw was hard and square. "Which is why those particular books are hidden now. I gave the others, the herbals, to Malcolm to show to--that man."

For a moment, Gary could relax, let his shoulders sag with relief. It hadn't been a betrayal after all. He really did want to help. "Thank you."

Ezekiel held up a hand. "It is not the books that worry me." Nodding at the bundle, he added, "They are nothing at all to this." 

Hope fled as Gary ventured a step forward, his heart sinking. He knew, with leaden certainty, what was in the bundle. He knew now what had happened to the contents of Morgelyn's trunk. Untying the rough twine that held the bundle closed, the priest reached into the makeshift sack and pulled out the Dragon's Eye. 

The primal, survival-focused sector of Gary's brain screamed, "Home," and quicker than thought, he reached for it. It awoke the moment he touched it, colors springing to life and dancing before their eyes. Ezekiel's startled, wordless exclamation barely registered over the panic this induced in Gary.

"Marissa? Oh my God--no." He stumbled forward as Ezekiel pulled the globe out of his reach. Only a hand on the rickety table kept Gary from going down. Grasping the edge until splinters stabbed his palm, he fought the rising tide of fear all over again. Suddenly, every horrible thing seemed possible, and his earlier fear that Marissa had tried to call him back because she was in trouble sprang to the surface. Or maybe it was somebody else, maybe it was Morgelyn, of course it was, of course she needed him. He could barely hear Father Ezekiel over the ringing in his ears.

"That is an interesting trick." Eyes narrowed, Ezekiel shifted his gaze from Gary to the crystal ball.

His mouth dry, his thoughts a maelstrom, Gary assessed his options: tell the man an unbelievable truth, or try to make him believe a lie that Gary knew he couldn't pass off, not in this state. He couldn't even believe the shipwreck story, let alone convince this man to do so. There was only one thing to say. "It's the Dragon's Eye," he whispered hoarsely. "From the story last night, it's real."

One bushy grey eyebrow lifted. "Of course it is," he said in a voice that clearly implied he believed no such thing. "And what does that make you?"

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter." Gary pointed at the Dragon's Eye. "I admit it, that thing is how I got here, and I think it's my only way home, but I--I'm not--I just want to help, like you, I know you do, and Morgelyn hasn't done anything wrong."

"I believed that, not long ago. And then you came." Lips pursed, he set the Dragon's Eye on the table, then reached into the bundle and pulled out Gary's jeans and sweater. "Not like any clothes I have ever seen," he remarked, holding them at arm's length. "Obviously a man's, and too large to belong to Fergus MacEwan. Too new to have been her father's."

Gary swallowed, half-surprised that he couldn't taste quicksand in his mouth, he was sinking that fast. "They're mine," he admitted. "But they're just clothes. Just because they're different, you can't start saying Morgelyn's some kind of witch."

"Perhaps. Still, they are passing strange." Letting them fall to the floor, Ezekiel reached into the bag once more, producing the crinkled, water-warped and fire-dried issue of the _Chicago Sun-Times_. Gary closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wish this all away. "As is this. Very strange indeed. No human hand wrote these words." He dropped it on the table next to the ball, as if afraid it would somehow sting him. "This tells me there is more than just a shipwreck going on." With a steely glare, he stepped closer and growled, "Where did you come from, what have you done to her, and who in the name of our Lord are you?"

For every time Gary had heard Crumb say, "I don't want to know," he was suddenly enormously grateful, and desperate to hear it just one more time. He knew now what it meant, and finally understood just how much trust that not asking had implied. He would have given anything for that trust now. But if Father Ezekiel wasn't Gary's Crumb, Gary wasn't Father Ezekiel's anything. The guy had no frame of reference for this, nothing but the same warped theology that had prompted Malcolm and Banning to act as they did, and his faith in Morgelyn, badly shaken in the past couple of days. If Gary wanted the man's trust, he was going to have to earn it, and it started by trusting first.

"I'm not from this place or time," he said, one hand out, his eyes wide and earnest. 

Ezekiel's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Not from this time? What does that mean?"

"I can't explain much more than that. There is something strange going on here, you're right about that, and you probably won't believe the rest, but Morgelyn hasn't done anything evil, and neither have I. If you want to use those things against me, I know I can't stop you. But this is not what you believe it is."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't march in there right now, show them all this, and tell them what you just told me."

"Morgelyn." 

The priest raised an eyebrow. Gary took a deep breath, tried to steady his frayed nerves. "You condemn me, and she'll die too. If you thought that wasn't true, you'd have thrown me to them already." He gestured at the table. "Believe me, if I thought it would save her, I'd go in there and show them that stuff myself! Look, where I come from doesn't matter. It's why I'm here that's important, and I'm here to stop this, and I need your help." His head throbbed, his legs ached, his shoulder complained, but a surge of adrenaline, of hope, at the way Ezekiel listened to him without interrupting or protesting kept Gary on his feet. "And it's not just Morgelyn who's in trouble here. If she dies, it'll only be the beginning. People are going to be running scared, trying to point the finger at their neighbors before their neighbors can point at them. Is that what you want for this place?" He heaved a sigh and pointed at the door, indicating everything that was happening around them. "Lady Nessa does. She told me as much last night. She'll make sure that you all turn on each other, she'll keep playing up the fear until these people are convinced that the only safety lies with her. They'll give up everything just to feel secure, and they'll disappear into her little fiefdom forever." 

Ezekiel finally spoke. "Why should I believe you?" 

Gary fought the urge to pace, to shout, to do anything but keep up a steady stream of what he hoped was a convincing speech. "Because of what I found out last night, because of what you need to know is true. Banning is her man. He admits she's paying him. She wants land, she wants laborers, and to get that she thinks she needs a scapegoat. A woman alone, a black woman--Morgelyn's an easy target, and she doesn't make anything easier when she gets all riled up, I know. But you have to believe me, she is not the threat." Gary's legs were going to give out soo. Maybe he should be on his knees begging anyway. Father Ezekiel's expression was as unfathomable as Cat's. Seconds ticked by, and Gary finally added, his voice low, "If you know this, and you let it happen, you might as well light the fire yourself."

Ezekiel's forehead furrowed into a deep scowl. "Do you think I knew about this before this morning? Do you think I would have let this happen?"

Gary shook his head. "That's just it. I know you wouldn't have. You have more guts than that. Morgelyn told me you stuck around during the plague, that you were the one who visited the sick and buried most of the dead. You weren't afraid then. You can't be afraid of the truth now." 

"This is not a matter of fear and courage. It is a matter of saving the soul of a young woman I care for as a daughter. If she has been corrupted by these strange objects, by magical happenings, then she will go to hell without absolution, an eternity of--" He broke off, staring at the bird's nest, and Gary realized he wasn't just parroting church doctrine. Their roles had shifted, if not reversed, for the moment, and it was Ezekiel who was pleading with him to understand. Gary went for the jugular.

"Burning her at the stake isn't going to save her soul." 

Startled, Ezekiel shook his head, barely able to meet Gary's eyes. He bent to pick up the clothes from the floor. "It will not come to that."

If this guy wouldn't believe it until it happened, there was no way he would intervene. "Yes, it will. It damn near already has! Do you have any idea what's going on right down the hall? What's in Banning's little chest full of goodies? Torture is not going to make everything all right. It won't make anything right, and it's not going to get you the truth, either!"

Pointing at Gary with the hand that still held his jeans, Ezekiel demanded, "Then tell me the truth."

"I have, I am, I swear it!" Gary's voice cracked with desperate sincerity and fading hope.

But the older man wagged his head again. "You haven't told me anything remotely believable. You have yet to explain any of this--" He waved his hand at the table's contents. "--to my satisfaction."

"What I told you is the truth, and that stuff doesn't even matter, not if she--"

"Guards!" Stuffing the clothes, ball and newspaper into his bag, the priest raised his voice over Gary's protests. "Guards! In here!"

"No!" Gary stepped toward Ezekiel, reached for his arm, but the older man pulled back as the door was thrown open.

"Take him back to the cell."

"Where are you going?" Gary demanded as gloved hands once again wrapped around his biceps, pulling him back so that his feet only brushed the floor. Ezekiel walked on ahead while the guards led Gary back toward the kitchen. "Don't walk away from her! You can't let them do this," Gary pleaded to his back. One of the guards cuffed him on the back of the head. 

"Shut yer mouth. Do not be talking to the good Father." 

But Gary ignored him, desperately grasping at this last lifeline. "C'mon, I know you're not like these people, you know this isn't the way. You know her, you know she's not--" He broke off, biting back an exclamation of pain as his arm was twisted violently behind his back. Still they propelled him forward, and the familiar head didn't turn around. Gary took a deep breath. They were almost to the old kitchen, to the cellar. He had only seconds to find the right thing to say, the words that would convince this guy to start acting like the man Gary thought he was. There had to be a reason he looked like Crumb; there had to be hope.

"Please, just listen to me, Morgelyn saved that little boy's life, you know she did."

Finally, the priest turned around. The guards stopped, and Gary held his breath. 

"My son," he said, sternly, softly, and what Gary saw in his eyes now wasn't hard, it was weary and resigned. "I know you believe you are helping. But knowing what I know, there is nothing I can say that will help her cause. 'Twould be better if I left now and said nothing at all. Banning and Father Malcolm are doing what is best, not just for the village, but for her soul. It must be saved, whether she gave it over to evil knowingly or not."

"Are you insane? You can't believe that, you can't. You _know_ her, Crumb. Do you think she'd let the devil take her soul?" Reverberating off the stone walls, Gary's words echoed back at him, and he realized his mistake.

"Who is Crumb?" asked one of the guards. Ezekiel stared at Gary, more than just weary resignation in his eyes--but what? He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment a scream rang through the hall. 

All four men froze for a split second. Gary moved first, terror lending him strength as he ducked and twisted almost free of the guards, but they reacted when he moved, grabbing him again as another scream pieced the air, this one ending in what sounded like a sob. 

No, God, no--"Morgelyn!" Gary bellowed, fighting to free himself. "Morgel--" but he couldn't get free, couldn't get to her, and they pushed and kicked and dragged him around the corner and through the empty cold kitchen. In the confusion, Gary didn't see Ezekiel again, but he called to him nevertheless. "Father, stop them, you gotta stop them, they're gonna--" What? What would they do? What had they done already? 

One of the guards got the door open, and they shoved him through. Gary half-tumbled, half-staggered down the stairs as the door was slammed shut and bolted behind him. He was back up the stairs in a heartbeat, pounding on the thick oak and yelling through the tiny opening. "Stop them, damn it, they'll kill her! Ezekiel!" 

But only the guards' footsteps came back to him in weakening echoes, pounding in counterpoint to his own rapidly-hoarsening voice.   


* * *

  
_Yet she most faithfull Ladie all this while...  
Through woods and wastnesse wide him daily sought;  
Yet wished tydings none of him unto her brought._  
~ Sir Edmund Spencer

Nothing worked.

Not her grandmother's quilt, not a decent breakfast, not walking Spike, not even being...here.

Marissa didn't know what had called her to this park, this bench. Certainly, she couldn't honestly say it had been Gary. But when she'd woken at about eight from the light, dreamless doze that she'd finally settled into, there on the couch under the multi-textured quilt, she'd felt the irresistible call of lake air, of morning calm. Of Gary's bench.

Crumb had shown up at her door just as she was leaving, and she'd told him the truth: the fickle sprinkles of rain didn't bother her, and Spike needed a walk. She'd taken her time getting here, letting Spike sniff trees and hydrants, telling him with words and harness commands that there was no rush, that he wasn't on duty here--not much, anyway. But their progress to the bench had been as inexorable as the seasons that she could feel changing under her feet in the occasional crunching leaf and in the tang of the air around her. Even though she wore a sweater under her raincoat, she shivered in the cool breeze that teased her hair and wrapped itself around her ankles. 

The wind made her feel restless, but she took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself and sit back against the wooden slats of the park bench. Everything had started here. It would be right if somehow, through some act of incredible grace, it could end here as well--a sigh, a prayer, a moment of pure faith, and then there would be Gary, as if nothing had happened, as if the past few days had been a bad dream. There would be an explanation, of course there would, but it wouldn't matter because everything would be right again. There would be nothing to figure out, no strange signs and talismans to decode, and most of all, no one she needed to convince. No whispers of doubt to loosen her faint hold on what her heart was telling her had to be true.

"The Bible tells us that a faith the size of a mustard seed can move a mountain," Reverend Nicks had said once, "but that faith, no matter how small, has to be pure. A faith of perfect trust." Clearly, Marissa thought, her faith wasn't perfect or pure enough. If it was, wouldn't Gary be here? Closing her eyes, clasping her hands together in her lap while raindrops landed on the back of her neck, she prayed for better faith, that she wouldn't be buffeted by the doubts that surrounded her, inside as well as out. If she really believed, why was she so afraid?

Because the truth was, she was terrified, moreso now than she had been even that first afternoon on the pier. It was because of her dream and its unshakable aftereffects. Even now it wouldn't leave her alone. Still her skin was goosebumpy and still her mind was filled with images that wouldn't have been half so frightening if she hadn't been afraid that they were true. Normally after such a vivid dream she would have given herself a stern talking-to and got on with her business. But she knew that smell, the one that still lingered in the corners of her awareness, and knew that it was more than just smoke. It was Gary, the way he smelled when he returned from a save smelling of fire. She hadn't known how to tell Chuck, or even if she should, but she'd known right from the start what it was. Her dream had been cold, but she'd smelled fire. Gary, surrounded by fire...

But Gary knew how to handle himself in a fire, she told herself firmly. He'd done it many times over the past two years. The last time had been the strangest.

She let her mind follow that tack, hoping to escape her more recent fears, or maybe even figure them out. It had happened not long before Chuck had moved to California. According to Chuck, Gary hadn't been anywhere near a fire that day. He'd been conked on the skull, as Chuck so delicately put it, trying to stop a building collapse that would have caused horrible fatalities. In answer to her worried questions, they both assured her that everything was fine and disaster had been averted, but Gary asked Marissa at least twice if she was all right, though she hadn't been anywhere near the construction site. He disappeared up to the loft while she was out in the kitchen. Chuck told her that he left the office muttering about time and physics. Concerned that the blow to Gary's head had done real damage, she used the tea she'd made as an excuse to go up and check on him. 

He let her in, the smoke that she could have sworn she'd noticed earlier nearly overwhelming her this time. Her guarded queries weren't answered; instead, Gary let out a barrage of questions of his own, none of which she understood. Was she related to Jesse Mayfield, or any Mayfield? When had her family come to Chicago? What was her great-grandmother's name, and did she know the words to "Danny Boy"?

"Did my great-grandmother know the words to 'Danny Boy'?" Still holding the tea, standing just inside the open door, she repeated the question to be sure she'd heard correctly.

"Yeah, or--maybe your great-great grandmother, or--or you. Do you ever sing that song?" His voice, and the acrid smell of fire, came at her in little waves as he paced the length of the loft, close to her, then across the room, then close again.

"Gary--' _Danny Boy'_? What does that have to do with what happened today?"

"Maybe everything." He started to mumble to himself as he moved away again. Using her cane for guidance, because for once none was forthcoming from her friend, Marissa found the end table and set the mug of tea down. 

"Please, Gary." She felt his footsteps coming nearer, and reached out to snag his arm as he passed. He stopped, but she could feel the restless energy seething inside him. "I don't understand why you're asking me these questions."

"You're gonna think I'm nuts. His voice was ragged and hoarse, and he sounded so lost.

"Of course I won't. Just relax and tell me what's going on."

He dropped to sit on the arm of the sofa. "I don't know, Marissa, that's the whole point!"

"Well, here, drink the tea before it gets cold." Pointing at the mug, Marissa waited until she heard Gary pick it up and swallow dutifully. "Just tell me, whatever it is. What happened to you? You smell like smoke, and you sound exhausted, as if you've lived a couple of days in the past hour."

At that, Gary had choked on his tea. And then he'd told her.

Even now, months afterward, she still didn't know what to think about the story he'd related. Of course she trusted Gary; of course she knew he hadn't made it up. But to think he had traveled through a century, lived two days, and come back, all in a matter of minutes; to think that she and Chuck had doubles in Nineteenth Century Chicago--it had taken a lot of faith just to work that one through. And yet, as she'd finally told Gary, if getting tomorrow's news today was possible, wasn't just about anything? 

Yes. Yes, anything was possible. "Anything," she said out loud, and Spike's tags jingled as he lifted his head, sat up, and nudged her knee with his nose. Scratching his head between his ever-alert ears, she added, "Even this."

She knew her resolution was fragile. So much time had passed already. She'd tried everything she could think of, and nothing at all had worked. But Gary had dreamed of a ghost, once, and put an old wrong to rights. And he'd been a part, somehow, of saving Jesse Mayfield's ancestors during the Chicago Fire. She didn't doubt those things. Why should she doubt that something like that was happening now?

Because neither one of those saves had taken Gary away from all of them like this. 

True, but he'd disappeared once before. He'd been gone for days. But not right in front of her, not into the lake. And no one had really believed, though they'd feared, what they all believed now.

All except for Marissa.

But Cat had come. Twice. She'd had a dream about Gary, he'd been there, trying to reach out to her. She was sure of it. She had promised she wouldn't resign herself to this.

But for how long?

How long until faith became foolishness? How long until it all crumbled, until even those who wanted to believe with her--Chuck, and maybe Crumb--decided that she was just deluded? How many hours, days? How much time was belief granted before it became insanity?

No. She had proof, if only someone would believe it with her. Shifting on the bench, she gave Spike one final pat on the head before reaching into her bag for the crystal ball. 

The moment she touched it, the air around her changed, charged. The metal was warm, like it had been the day before in the lab. She drew it out, fingers trembling, her prayers now nothing more than wordless hope. 

Gary...somehow...her thoughts wouldn't coalesce; they left her breathless as she tried to chase them down and gather them in. Spike whined, but he sounded so far away. She had to believe...believe that Gary was still alive, still trying to come home. She tried to focus, to think, to feel, and for a moment it was clear, it was possible, anything was--but the feeling winked out, like music suddenly silenced, and for a moment she was back in that room of cold stone, back in her dream, smelling, but not feeling, the fire as it advanced, burned more than wood--singed flesh. Gary was there, he was in trouble. Where? When? 

Now. Right now, he was in trouble, so much so that it made her sick just to think about it, and breathless and shaky and--and he'd been hurt, but more than that, he was afraid. Gary, who was supposed to be the one who solved everybody else's problems, was afraid and lost and someone was hurting him--

\--she finally heard her own gasping breath when the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come, but like a wave, it left her drenched in fear, shaking all over. She leaned forward, one hand over her mouth, the other clutching the scrying glass to her stomach, trying to just hold herself in, hold herself together. Because if she was right about Gary being alive, then wasn't this also right, this feeling that he was in grave danger? He needed _help_ , but how could they help him if they couldn't find him? 

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?" A young man's voice, concerned, his words interspersed with runner's gasps, startled Marissa upright. Spike, who always seemed to know whether new people meant to help or to harm, pressed close against her leg, but didn't growl. Marissa dropped her hand from her mouth to the dog's head. 

"I--I'm fine--I just--"

Gary needed help.

"Are you sure? I have a cell phone, I could call a doctor or a cab or someone." The poor man sounded completely befuddled, and his voice pulled her back to the present.

Her hands were still shaking. He must have thought she was a lunatic. Forcing one deep breath at a time in and out, in and out, she was finally able to regain something like composure. "No. Really, I just felt a little strange there for a minute." Both hands on the crystal ball that she held in her lap, Marissa managed a hint of a smile, ignoring the whispers in her head that said she was a liar. "I didn't get much sleep last night, and I think I have a touch of the flu." 

"The weather's changing, it'll do that to you. But still, if you want help getting somewhere, or--"

"No. No, thank you, really, I'm fine." Lifting her chin, she nodded in Spike's direction. "He takes good care of me, don't you Spike?" Spike woofed, tail wagging at the tone of voice she always used to praise him, and that did the trick. The man chuckled. When in doubt, deflect to the dog. 

"Okay, then. You, be careful. Fluids and rest are best for the flu."

She thanked him again, the tension in her shoulders releasing just a little bit when he left. Not too much, though. She couldn't break down again, not here. She tried to turn her thoughts away from her fear long enough to stand, to tuck the glass ball back in her bag, to pick up Spike's harness and head back for the bus stop. It was good, she told herself, to know that there were still people in the city who would stop to aid a stranger, even if they didn't get tomorrow's news today. And at least he'd helped, inadvertently, by sending her walls up again, but it wasn't strangers she needed right now. It was friends. 

One friend in particular, but that didn't seem to be about to happen. She reached into her bag and ran her fingers over cool glass and now-indifferent metal, searching as she walked for some clue as to what had made that happen, what had triggered the rush of sensation and emotion. The glass was the same as it had been before, the letters a little easier to find after Josh's cleaning, that was all.

But she knew, now, that something was truly, horribly wrong for Gary, and she had to find some way to help him. She needed help as well. Needed someone who'd listen. As much as he might not want the job, that person was Chuck. There was no one else left. Gulping back tears that suddenly clogged her throat, she was halfway across the street before she realized she'd passed the bus stop. She turned around and followed Spike back onto the curb, the whoosh of a car right behind her sending her raincoat flapping around her legs.

"Careful, hon," a female voice cautioned as Marissa stepped over to the bus stop and touched the pole that held the CTA sign, just to make sure she was in the right spot. At that moment she heard the whine of a diesel engine approaching. "I don't think that guy even saw you. Idiot drivers with cell phones. Here's the bus." She followed Marissa and Spike onto the bus, muttering dire proclamations about the safety of Chicago's streets. Marissa hardly heard her; she fished in her pocket for fare and followed Spike to the nearest empty seat, but the tirade didn't stop.

"...and then last night, did you hear about the wreck on the Eisenhower? The paper said it was a chain reaction caused by some guy who was picking up his hamburger from the floor of his car while he was doing eighty on the freeway! My husband saw it on his way home from work. He said there were cars crumpled everywhere. Said there was no way anyone could have come out of a couple of them alive. And all because of a hamburger! I'd like to smack that guy up top of the head. All it would have taken to save those lives would have been a little bit of common sense."

Or Gary. Gary could have stopped it, if only...

Not here, not now. She bit her lip and reached down to scratch Spike's head again, concentrating on his warmth and the shape of his head, on counting the stops to Illinois Street, on nodding at what seemed like appropriate times while fiercely tuning out the actual words the woman was saying. Her prayer now was simply that she could hold herself together, at least until she was among friends, and she willed the bus forward, faster, wishing the diesel fumes would drive the scent of smoke from her consciousness.


	17. Chapter 17

_Prisons, dungeons, blessed places where evil is impossible  
because they are crossroads of all the evil in the world. One  
cannot commit evil in hell.  
_~ Jean Genet

Gary didn't stop pounding until he could no longer feel his hands; didn't stop yelling until his voice gave out. Both happened long before his anger had been spent. Cursing his own ineffectual efforts, he flopped down, leaned his head back against the door, and rested his arms over his bent knees, his numb hands dangling limply. The only consolation he could find was that Morgelyn was still alive, or had been. What must have happened to make her scream like that? He shut his eyes, but couldn't shut off his imagination. It would have made him nauseous, had there been anything in his stomach.

His fingers started to tingle as feeling returned, and he welcomed the pain. It gave him something to focus on. Flexing life back into them, letting the sharp needle stabs run across his palms, he stared out the window and tried to decide what time it was, but he couldn't be sure, only that there was still light outside and there were birds chirping madly over the moor. Wish as he might, though, Fergus didn't appear. 

Every muscle in his body protested as he got to his feet, checking the little window in the door for any sign of movement or life before he started down the stairs. There was nothing. Maybe they would just forget about him down here and leave him to the rats. How could he help Morgelyn--how could he help anyone at all--if that happened?

He moved to the window, standing on tiptoe to look for any sign of help, but there were only grass and sky. "Fergus!" he croaked with the little bit of voice he had left. "Hey, Fergus, you out there? Anyone? Cat?" There was no response. He turned away from the window, slumping against the wall and massaging his throat. He was so wrapped up in worry that he didn't hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

"Get in there, wench."

Pushing off from the wall, he made it to the stairs as the door banged open. Pushed from behind, Morgelyn came flying through the opening and down the steps. He caught her around the waist, and they tumbled down the last three steps together. The door slammed shut with a tomblike echo. He heard the bolts fall again, but those sounds were only part of the background, not nearly as loud in his ears as Morgelyn's short, shaky breaths. Grasping her elbows, he tried to help her up, but even as she whispered, "Thank you," she was twisting out of his hands, turning her back to him, bent over with her arms cradled against her body.

"Are you all right?" Gary's voice, sandpaper rough, was forced out through his clenched jaw. He took a step closer but she moved away, into the shadows in the far corner. 

"Yes, of course." The sound of her voice was anything but all right; it was higher, tenser than he'd ever heard it. She was trying to do...something, tugging at her dress with her right hand, Gary couldn't tell what. He stepped to the side, trying to at least see her profile.

"I heard you scream." 

She closed her eyes and gave up whatever she was doing to her dress, wincing, leaning her forehead against the wall. Gary swallowed back impatience and his own fear. Given what he'd been imagining, he should have been thrilled just to see her alive, but something was wrong, very wrong. He managed to keep his voice soft, as if he were coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. "What did they do to you?" She shook her head, eyes still shut. He stepped around so he was in front of her, and he could see that her right hand was clutching the top of her dress closed. The laces trailed out between her fingers, and her left hand was pressed tight into her stomach. All frustration fled, replaced by a queasy sense that he might not want to know the answer to his question. "What is it?"

She cleared her throat, huddled further into the wall as if it could swallow her, hide her. When she spoke, her voice was hushed, the words floating away like falling leaves, almost out of reach before Gary could make sense of them. "It was what they wanted, what he--what Banning wanted." She still wouldn't look at Gary, staring instead at the dark corner behind him. "Screaming was--it was the least of what they wanted, but it was enough to make them stop. For now."   
  
"What are you talking about, what else did they want?" 

She shook her head fiercely, but this time she didn't flinch away when Gary placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. Even in the dim light of the cell, he could see that not only her hair and clothing were in disarray. Emotionally she was just on the edge of falling apart, an expression of hopeless fear and the hint of tears transforming a face he thought he'd known. "Morgelyn, what did they want?"

"What do you think they wanted?" she whispered, her eyes still focused somewhere over his shoulder. "They wanted me to sign that confession, and they--" She looked up at him, finally, brown eyes huge and dark. "They wanted me to say that you have committed the same sins."

"You should have, if it would have stopped them. I'll tell them myself."

"No!" Morgelyn pulled away from him, and he let go immediately, not wanting to trap her like Banning had. What had happened in that room? "You do not understand." Backing past him and into the corner, she turned away and struggled with the laces of her dress, trying to pull them closed, but only using her right hand--the left was still held protectively against her stomach. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, it wasn't working, and her soft, frustrated sniffles were too much for Gary. He was only one long stride away from being able to reach out and touch her hand.

"Let me--" he started to say, but she jumped back when his fingers brushed her own, clutching the loosely-laced halves of her bodice together. Gary struggled to keep his voice level and calm. "Morgelyn, it's me. I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm your friend. I'm not them." He tried to meet her terrified eyes in the semi-darkness, hoping for some sign that he was getting through. "I swear, I'd never do anything to hurt you. I'm on your side, okay? I want to help."

She bit her lower lip, but her hand fell to her side when he took the ends of the laces. Gary was careful not to look too closely at the skin exposed under his hands. He tried to look at her face instead, but mostly what he saw was the top of her bowed head. He pulled the lacing up tight, tried not think about the fact that the top of the dress bodice, usually laced up so that not even the chemise she wore beneath it showed through, had been spread wide enough to allow a man's hand inside, or that her skin was gooseflesh from her hairline down to where, despite his best efforts, his fingers clumsily brushed against her throat when he tied the laces into a knot like a sneaker's. And then he felt something else: smooth, small, irregular patches of something harder than skin, scattered among the goosebumps at her neck. "What's this?"

Her right hand, her good hand, he thought with a sick twist of his stomach, knocked against his fingers as she brought it up to cover her mouth. Frozen, still clutching the laces, he waited. "'Tis candle wax," she whispered between her fingers, eyes closed again.

"I don't--what--" He was no longer sure that he had the right to ask her to relive this. He dropped his hands to his sides, then brought one up, barely brushing her left shoulder, just to let her know--what, that he was there? That he was sorry he'd failed her? Too little, too late, mocked a voice in his head. "Morgelyn, I'm sorry. I don't understand."

She brought her hand down, tracing the bow he'd tied, then dropped it to her side in a hopeless gesture. "He _likes_ what he does." 

The whisper was so soft that he almost couldn't make it out. It took another beat for him to understand what it meant. One shudder turned into uncontrollable shivering under his hand, and Morgelyn kept her head bowed. "He said--he said he was looking for witch marks, he said he had to touch my--my neck and my--to see if I had been marked by a d-devil's kiss. And then he said that my--my skin was too dark to see, and he needed the candle close. Father Malcolm's hand kept shaking, and he spilled the wax, and Banning li-liked it when I jumped, when it hurt me, when he t-touched--" Her hand flew up again, covering her eyes for a moment, then moved down to her mouth as she tipped her head to look up at Gary, shaking her head back and forth, back and forth. "He wouldn't stop."

Compared to some of the more horrific scenarios he'd been imagining a few minutes before, this might not have seemed so bad, but her eyes were tear-filled, and it had obviously been more than she could handle. "You're okay now," Gary whispered, rubbing her shoulder. It could possibly qualify as the stupidest thing he'd ever said, in any century, but the truth was he didn't know what to say. He was useless in the face of this. Behind her hand, Morgelyn made a soft, choking noise, and he figured she would have agreed with his assessment. "What happened there?" He pointed two fingers at the arm she still held cradled against herself. He could imagine the struggle if she'd put up a fight. "Is it broken?"

Biting her lip again, she shook her head and moved into the patch of wan sunlight. Gary saw her shoulders stiffen as she turned to face him, blinking furiously. She pulled her arm away from her body slowly and held out her left hand, palm up. Stepping closer, Gary peered at it in the slatted light that filtered through the window bars. This time there was no stopping the anger that flooded through him, heating the blood in his veins. He raised his eyes to meet Morgelyn's. Those sadistic, cruel bastards. In that moment, he would have gladly taken them all on at once.

"He--he held it over--no, in, in the candle, that--the flame." Morgelyn sucked in air between her teeth, fingers curling toward the palm in a rictus of pain. "He would not let his own hand get near the flame; he used those, those pinchers..." When Gary, dumbfounded, would have taken the blistered hand in his own, she pulled it away, her expression apologetic. "It hurts. If I only had some witch hazel, or willow bark Or maybe even plantain, that would do in a pinch."

"Why?" Gary's question was forced out through a clenched jaw. 

"They are good for burns, they stop the pain."

"Morgelyn." He grabbed her by the shoulders, searching her eyes for the answer she was avoiding so assiduously. "Why--why in the world--how could anyone do this?" He didn't just mean her hand, he meant all of it. How could they have seen what this was doing to her, how could they look at her face and see the same shock, the same stark fear, that he saw, and continue to hurt her? How could they enjoy inflicting this on anyone?

She blinked at him again, and he realized it was her way of shifting gears, leaving the safer haven of dithering over herbs she couldn't get anyway to enter fresh, painful memory. Again, it crossed his mind that he shouldn't be asking, but he had to know. He wanted to understand what had happened to her. 

"Oh, Gary." Her voice dropped back down to a whisper. "The things they said about me, about you--" She swallowed hard, glanced down at her upturned palm. "Right before he did this, Banning said I needed to understand what was being put before me; that this was only temporary, but the torments of hell would be forever. And if I did not confess and tell the truth--what they say is the truth--that--" She swallowed, the tears springing back into her eyes, and this time they spilled over. "This was how we will both die, and how our souls will spend eternity. He said this was the only way to make me understand the truth of what I was, and what I had done. Then I screamed." Something in her seemed to give way. Her shoulders sagged, her knees bent, and she would have crumpled down to the floor if Gary hadn't caught her by the elbows. She had no fight left, he realized She'd used up the last of her reserves in reliving it for him. 

"No." He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight, but careful to keep the burnt hand out of the way. "You know that's not true. None of it."

"But--"

"It's not true." He pulled away enough to cup her cheek in his hand, staring down, willing her to believe him. "Nothing they said about you was true. Nothing they did to you was right."

"But it is real. It really happened. It is still happening. It will happen."

Gary didn't have an immediate response to that. He just pulled her in close again. "It's real," he finally said, wishing with all his heart that it wasn't true. "But we'll change it, somehow, I promise."

Her good arm came around his waist, and they leaned against each other, weak with relief at the breaking of this one barrier. 

"Do they do this to people where you come from?" Her voice was muffled against his chest.

"Well, no, but we find plenty of other ways to hurt each other. Hey," he added, when she relinquished her hold to dry tears with her fist. "It's not going to happen. We'll find some way out of this. There's still Fergus out there, somewhere."

"And Father Ezekiel." Her eyes lit with hope, and Gary winced. 

"Uh, I'm not sure about him."

"No, you do not understand." She touched his sleeve. "He was the one who made them stop." 

"What?"

"He pulled my hand out of the flame and pushed them away. He told them they were wrong, that they should not--" She faltered to a stop, took a step back. "Why are you frowning at me?"

Gary tried to blink away his confusion. "What else did he say?"

"That he had new evidence to show them, and that they needed to send me back here so they could see it. Gary?" He moved over to rthe steps and sat down heavily, while Morgelyn stared at him. "What's wrong? I thought this would be good news. Perhaps he has spoken to Anna and convinced her to tell them all the truth."

Gary buried his face in his hands. He wanted that to be true, and he did not want to explain to Morgelyn why he didn't think it was. 

There was a light touch on his shoulder, and he moved over to give her room to sit. "I know I am shaken," she said, though she sounded more like herself than she had since her return, "but you need to tell me the truth. Do not hide anything, not now."

With a deep sigh, he lifted his head; saw her looking at him with her head tilted to one side, her eyes red and puffy. "I talked to him, after they took me away, until just before we heard you scream. He has it."

"What?"

"The Dragon's Eye. And my clothes, and my paper. He thinks I've corrupted you, he doesn't trust me any farther than he can throw me. He would have marched right in there and shown it all to them if he hadn't thought it would get you in deeper trouble, too."

Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, Morgelyn stared at him. "But he stopped them."

"He stopped them hurting you. I think he'd do anything for you, and God knows, I'm grateful to him for it."

"But you are concerned about what he is telling them or showing them now. About you." There was a faint shake of her head. "He would not hand you over to them. I won't let him."

But it made a strange, twisted kind of sense. Gary was the stranger here, strange in more ways than one, and if he wanted to, he could show them things that the y would have to attribute to magic, and then maybe they'd leave her alone. "Look, no matter what happens to me--"

"Nothing will happen to you!" Her eyes went wide with panic. "You said it yourself. We can change this."

He'd gone into a burning barn once for the sake of trying, and ended up back home. Maybe this was how time travel worked for him: fire and water, and relentless blows to the head. "Maybe this is the way it gets changed. Look, Morgelyn, what happens to me doesn't matter, as long as you come out of this okay."

"What happens to you does matter." She grabbed at his arm, her forehead creasing in vertical furrows. "It matters to me, it matters to your friends, and it matters to the people you are responsible for, with that newspaper of yours. If it is a matter of one of us or the other, I will confess. I will tell them what they want to hear, and I will tell them I bewitched you. They will release you and you can go home."

How could she do this, twist his own idea back in on itself? "I didn't come here to let you die. I thought you said you wouldn't lie just to stop them from torturing you." He pointed two fingers at her, driving his point home. "You said it was a sin."

She looked right back at him, perfectly level. "To save another's life, I think God would permit it. And I did perform magic."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Gary let out a frustrated breath. "We've been over this before. You didn't perform anything, you got caught up in it, just like I did. There's nothing wrong with that, nothing sinful. You don't deserve this. You can't believe their lies. I'm here to save your life, that's what this is all about, and that's why I should tell them what they want to hear."

"I did not use the scrying glass to save myself. It was to save the village. You need to live so that you can find a way to do that!"

"No." He was starting to feel like a two-year-old. "I'm here to save you. Look, I'm not really religious. I don't know what to think about God, and right now, I'm really not too big on the church. But when I think about everything that's happened to me in the last couple of years, I know there's something or someone directing all of this. Marissa called it a miracle once, and I guess it is, just like it's a miracle that I'm here. If I hadn't shown up, whether it was the paper or your Dragon's Eye that got me here, you would have died anyway. Alone. And the village would have been lost, too. But something or someone didn't want that to happen. I'm as sure as I've ever been of anything that whoever's in charge of all this, whatever's guiding it, wants you to live. Why else do you think it finally worked when it did? Why am I here now, and not two years ago?"

"But one of us has to get out of here, and save the villagers from Nessa, from what she wants." Her eyes were tearing up again, whether out of pain, frustration, or the sheer weight of what stood before them, he didn't know. But he sure as heck didn't blame her.

"Fine. But what about the people who are sick, the ones who are going to be sick later? What will they do without you? Believe me, I know, it doesn't work this way, You don't have to die to save them."

"Then neither do you." Morgelyn's voice was choked as she slipped her hand into his. "I could not bear that, Gary." 

For just a minute, he couldn't meet her eyes. He stared off at the far wall, and thought about Eleanor and Jessie Mayfield, and Morris Best, and what they must have thought happened to him when he ran into that barn. And they'd barely known him, not like Morgelyn did now.

The afternoon sunlight--it must have been afternoon by now--had shifted while they talked, and now the patch on the floor was crawling toward the steps. Their window faced west, toward home, and for some reason that thought gave Gary a bit of hope. "Okay then," he said, and got stiffly to his feet, pulling Morgelyn along with him. "I guess we'd better figure out what we're going do about getting out of here."

"Very well, Dragon Slayer." Morgelyn tried to smile. "What do you suggest?" _  
  
_

* * *

_  
_I've held it in my hands, pressed my cheek against it  
But it slipped through like water or sand  
Or some well-intentioned words  
I will never believe this is time wasted  
I will not grieve  
Anything with wings_  
~Carrie Newcomer_

When she stopped in McGinty's foyer, Marissa could pretend that the past three days hadn't happened. She was simply coming to work, pausing where the cooler outside air mingled with the warmth of the bar, and the muffled traffic sounds behind her gave way to the low hum of voices ahead. Crumb and Patrick must have decided to open up, which was fine with her, if it meant one touchstone of normality among the ravages of this emotional storm. If anyone had told her a few years ago that a downtown sports bar was going to feel like home, she would never have believed them, but in more than one way, it had turned out to be true. 

Maybe here in Gary's home there would be enough of his presence to help her keep believing. Chuck would be here, too; Crumb had said he'd make sure of it. If she could just make Chuck see what was happening, convince him that they had to help Gary, this could all come out right. They could make it right together.

She reached for the door handle, but it swung out from under her hand. "Miss Clark! You're here! Hey, Spike!" Patrick usually sounded thrilled to see her, even if she'd just come from the office, and now the effusiveness of his welcome was doubled--as was the volume. "You guys been out in the rain? You must be freezing. I got coffee going, you want some?"

"Sure, Patrick; thank you." Buffeted from her moment of conviction like a gull on the wind, shesteadied herself in the doorway before she walked the rest of the way into the bar. Immediately she realized that they were not, in fact, open for business. The scent of burgers wafted from the kitchen, but it was probably just lunch for the handful of people who were here: Patrick and some of the other staff and...oh, no.

Listening to the voices a few yards away, she swallowed hard and gathered herself in. Crumb was there, but so were Bernie and Lois Hobson. She couldn't make out what they were saying. McGinty's staff were coming and going, cleaning by the sound of it. Their subdued conversations muffled the Hobsons' voices. Spike tugged at his leash, no doubt wondering why she was just standing there when they usually headed straight for the office.

"Marissa." She jumped when Crumb touched her elbow. "You okay? Fishman said--" He cleared his throat. "Well, he was kinda worried about you, and you've been gone a while."

"I'm fine," she lied. "I just need to talk to Chuck. Is he here?"

"Nope. Said he had a couple errands to run. Hey, he'll be here, he said he would," he added, and Marissa knew he'd seen her shoulders droop. Just keep breathing, she told herself. One thing at a time. 

"Hi, Miss Clark," said one of the waitresses as she passed.

"Good morning, Sarah," Marissa answered absently, not even sure if it was still morning. It was an effort to stand upright and not get lost in the undertow of whatever was going on here. Because something was happening, something had changed. She could feel it in the air and hear it in Crumb's hesitant concern.

"Look," he said, "why don't we--" 

"Hey, there she is!" Bernie boomed, and they all jumped, even Spike. "Marissa, c'mon over here, honey, have a seat."

It was too much. Too many people, all at once, and she'd had no time to recover from her dream, from the park. She bit her lip, wishing the bar would start to feel like solid ground. Maybe she should try the office. She needed to sit down, but not with the Hobsons. There wasn't any choice, though. Crumb nudged her forward, and Spike, the traitor, headed toward the table closest to the end of the bar, lured by the scent of hamburgers. Marissa followed numbly.

"I think we should have meatballs at the get-together afterward," Lois was saying. Marissa didn't miss the hitch in her voice. "Gary always loved my meatballs." 

Her feet stopped moving forward. Nonono. This couldn't be what she thought it was. She stalled for time by undoing Spike's harness. "Go lie down, boy." Spike trotted a few steps away, stopped for a moment, then continued; some distant part of her mind suspected that Bernie had slipped him a piece of his hamburger. Closing the distance to Gary's parents felt like slogging through mud. She heard a chair scrape out, knew it was Crumb who was offering it, but she couldn't bring herself to sit down. Instead, she gripped the edge of the high table with one hand, praying for strength. "What's going on?"

Crumb, still hovering, answered. "We're trying to make some arrangements. Lois and Bernie here want to have a--a--"

"Memorial service." Bernie finished with that definite, 'I'm in control here' voice of his. "We need the names of Gary's friends here in Chicago, so we can invite them all."

"And some of the people whose lives he's saved," Lois added. "You know, Marissa, the ones who would remember. I know we'll need a big church. Gary made an impact on lots of people's lives, didn't he?"

"He--yes--" She could barely breathe, let alone speak. She had to get away from this. Squeezing the shoulder strap of her bag so tightly her fingers ached, she tried to find the words that would allow her to escape. But Bernie and Lois were in front of her and Crumb was right behind, and any minute one of them would see, would know she was cracking apart.

"We have to keep this positive. Gary wouldn't have wanted a buncha weepin' and wailin'," said Bernie. "I'm thinking a Dixieland band, with trumpets and banjoes and 'When the Saints Go Marching In'."

"Oh, Bernie, don't be crass."

"It's not crass. It's class!"

"What's not crass? Here's your coffee, Miss Clark." Patrick was there, too, joining the assault on Marissa's senses. How could they plan Gary's funeral when he needed their help? But how could she tell them, any of them, what she believed? All she had to alleviate their grief were her own fears, and those were based on a dream and a crystal ball. It would never work.

"It doesn't matter," Lois said, just as definite as her husband. "I have a better idea. Marissa can sing."

Marissa's heart skipped a beat. Her mouth opened, but she couldn't speak. 

"Miss Clark? Your coffee?" Patrick nudged the warm mug against her fingers. Still holding on to the edge of the table for dear life, she didn't dare try to pick up the mug. She'd drop it, it would shatter, just like she was about to. "I think it's a great idea, Mrs. H.," Patrick burbled. "I mean, I know you hardly know me and I just started working here a couple months ago, but I've been saying we need a karaoke night, just because Miss Clark can sing so well and--Miss Clark? Are you okay?"

Marissa nodded, sure that none of them would believe her. Sing? The word echoed around her brain, but she couldn't attach any meaning to it. How could she possibly sing when Gary might be--was--in a place where--it was awful, it was--

It was evil. Finally, she had a name for what she'd been fearing since very early that morning. She couldn't stop the gasp that escaped. 

"Are you sure?" Patrick's voice pulled her back into the moment. "You look kinda freaked out."

Crumb cleared his throat. "Hey, Quinn, you wanna get those deliveries in from the alley?"

"Now?"

"No, yesterday. Of course now!"

"Okay, Mr. C. I'm on it!"

Patrick left, and everyone else seemed to let out a sigh of relief, but Marissa couldn't move. 

"Please, Marissa, won't you do this for us? Gary says--he always said you have a beautiful voice," Lois said.

But Marissa's voice had deserted her. Not upsetting the Hobsons was one thing, but this was too much to bear. Maybe if things were different, if she could bring herself to believe this were true, it would have been easier to just give in to what they wanted. But it wasn't true. She wouldn't let it be true. 

"Lois," Marissa finally managed, her voice small and distant, "I-I can't--"

"Of course she'll sing," Bernie declared, oblivious to the subtext. "But we can still have a Dixieland band, maybe here at McGinty's afterward."

"But--" Marissa whispered, wishing she could just turn away and walk--no, run--as far and as fast as possible. 

"Oh, I just knew you would!" Lois sounded so sure of herself. Didn't they know? Couldn't they see what had to be written all over her face? Marissa was still trying to voice her protest when Lois added, "You were such a good friend to Gary. I knew you wouldn't let him down."

That was the moment when her heart finally splintered. She snatched her free hand away from the table, curling it into a fist at her side and wishing it would stop shaking. She had to get out of there.

"Course she wouldn't." Crumb patted her shoulder, and she had a feeling he wasn't talking about singing, even though Lois had meant nothing else. But it was too late to hold herself together, and Lois missed Crumb's meaning entirely.

"I was thinking 'Amazing Grace'."

Blinking hard, Marissa fought the tears that were stinging the corners of her eyes. "Excuse me," she finally gasped. "There are some things I need to take care of in the back."

"But what about the service?" 

"I can't. I'm sorry." Slipping out from under Crumb's hand, she pushed off the corner of the table, found the bar railing, used it to guide her to the office. Of course Crumb followed.

"Marissa, wait." His hand on her arm was meant to be gentle, like his voice, but he might just as well have been choking her. 

"I won't be part of this," she whispered. "It's grotesque."

"They just want some closure. Look, if you don't want to do this, that's fine, you don't have to, but--"

"I can't do this."

Crumb released her shoulder, but before she could move he'd stepped in front of her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I _can't_ ," she repeated, wishing someone would believe her, at least about this. She started forward, and this time he got out of the way. To Crumb, the Hobsons, and whoever else might be watching, she must have seemed incredibly rude. She turned back long enough to add, "Please, I just need some time." Hurrying into the office, she closed the door behind her, finally, blessedly, alone. She let the bag fall from her shoulder, slumped back against the file cabinet, and buried her face in her shaking hands. 

But tears wouldn't come. Maybe she wasn't ready to cry yet, or maybe she'd passed the point long ago. After a few minutes her breathing steadied and the world--it didn't right itself, but it wasn't closing in on her anymore. She could move, past her own desk piled high with unanswered mail; past Gary's desk, empty as far as her hands could tell; past the sofa where she told Spike to stay; up the stairs and to a door that she wished to heaven she needed to knock on, but there was no one there to care if she walked right in. 

And she started to, but as soon as she opened it, she knew something was off. Not wrong, in the way that things had been wrong in her dream. Just not exactly what they should have been. There were smells here that she wasn't used to, as if the loft itself had already given up on its owner's return. Marissa couldn't pinpoint any one difference; maybe it was Lois's perfume or Bernie's soap; maybe they just used different detergent on their clothes than Gary. Maybe it wasn't the presence of something new as much as it was the absence of what was familiar. Cold pizza left in the box on the coffee table for two days. Cat food and the litter box. Newsprint and ink.

She ventured one more step in, but the loft refused to reassert itself and become its old familiar haven. Pine Sol, she thought; someone had been cleaning. It was as if Lois and Bernie, in an attempt to deny their grief, had eliminated every trace of Gary. 

No, that wasn't right. She wasn't being fair. Lois had probably just cleaned the place up out of habit, her domestic busy-ness a means to keep sorrow at bay. The woman had a Martha Stewart complex that ran deeper than the Chicago River. No one was trying to get rid of Gary. 

Except the evil in her dream, whoever or whatever it was. The fire.

She needed to sit down. She wasn't sure which way down even was. But she couldn't go forward. Who knew what else they'd changed? If they were already planning Gary's--his--Marissa's heart lurched at even the thought of the word 'funeral'--maybe they'd packed away his things. She couldn't bear to find out. 

Not even bothering to shut the door, she turned away and walked out. Halfway down the stairs she realized that the office would be just as bad. She'd never be able to sit at her desk without expecting Gary to come in at any second. Pulled down by the weight of the knowledge that he wouldn't, she sank down onto the step, gripping the railing for dear life. 

Halfway...she was halfway. Halfway between somewhere and nowhere. Halfway between belief and giving in, between hope and--

No, there was no halfway. Hope was all there was. It had to be. For Gary's sake. But she couldn't keep this up, not alone, not with the weight of everything that she'd felt downstairs pressing in on her, and the sheer terror that took hold whenever she thought about her dream. Firetorn, it had warned, just like the voice in the lab. Because if she believed that Gary was alive, then she had to believe that dream was real, too, didn't she?

Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her forehead on her knees. Just for a moment, she told herself. Just until she felt warm again, just until the world felt like a steady, secure place. But it wouldn't, not until she knew what had happened to Gary, and that wherever he was, he was safe.

Which, she supposed, was what everyone else thought, and why they were able to keep going. They didn't think Gary was in danger any more, or that he would ever be again.

Sniffling through unbidden tears, she wished she could get a handle on the truth of the situation, whatever it might be. What was wrong with her, anyway? At this point, she wasn't sure if she was losing her faith, or her mind.

Someone opened the door from the bar to the office. She pulled her head up and braced herself for a confrontation, swiping at her eyes. Light footsteps tapped across the office floor, somewhat hesitant, not those of someone who knew where she--it had to be a she--was going. A moment later, she caught a whiff of perfume, feminine, but not flowery. Not Lois, then. 

If it was a stranger, she would stay back here and hide. But why on earth would Crumb have let a complete stranger walk into the office? The footsteps neared, then stopped. 

"Oh, Marissa, you are here. Thank goodness."

It had been several weeks since the last time Grace Best had stopped in to visit, but Marissa knew that voice, strong and warm and kind. 

"Aunt Gracie?" In the months since they'd met her, Marissa and Gary had fallen into calling Chuck's aunt their own, and she seemed to like it. It suited her; she was too much their elder to be Gracie, but Mrs. Best was far too formal. 

Reaching for the railing, Marissa started to get up, but Aunt Gracie said, "Stay where you are, dear. I'm not so old and feeble that I can't manage a few steps."

"Of course you're not." Marissa found herself smiling in spite of herself, in spite of everything, while the older woman climbed the stairs. "You're nowhere near either one of those things. But--"

"No, dear, no buts." Aunt Gracie put a hand on Marissa's shoulder and lowered herself to the step. "I came to see you, and this is where you are."

"Halfway..." Marissa trailed off, nodding. 

"Hm." Gracie's noncommittal noise was more of an agreement than a judgment. "I was going to ask if you were all right, and then I realized what a silly question that would be. Of course you're not all right."

"Oh, Aunt Gracie--" Words flew out of Marissa's brain in the face of genuine empathy. Aunt Gracie's hand was still on her shoulder, warm and secure, the first time since early that morning that Marissa felt there was something steady in her world. More then ever, tears wanted to spill out of her eyes, and she wasn't doing a very good job of stopping them. She sniffled like a heroine in some third-rate movie. "Look at me, I'm falling apart, and making you sit on the steps, I'm sorry."

Aunt Gracie shook her head, so close to Marissa that she could feel short, stiff curls brush her shoulder. "There's nothing to apologize for. It would be strange if you didn't fall apart at a time like this."

"No, you don't understand--" She broke off when a tissue was pressed into her hands. 

"No one out there seems to, either." An edge crept into Gracie's voice. "I'll have to have words with Marion. I didn't expect that he, of all people, would leave you sitting alone on the stairs like this."

"It's not Crumb's fault. I wanted to be alone--at least I thought I did. They wanted me to--but nobody knows--" Marissa's throat closed up, and she squeezed the damp, torn tissue into a ball. "Did you draw the short straw, or did they just elect you to come after me?"

Warm fingers covered her own, balled-up tissue and all. "Nonsense. I volunteered. I've been wanting to talk to you since I heard the news, but you have been extraordinarily difficult to reach. Luckily that long-lost nephew of mine showed up at my door a little while ago and offered to bring me here. He said you might need some company."

"Chuck? Chuck said that I--" Marissa swallowed with difficulty, wondering if she was ever going to finish two consecutive sentences.

"And that was all he said, though I suspect there is a great deal more to the story than that. I believe," Gracie went on with a smile in her voice, "that he would have told me more, had he not been disappointed that I didn't make more of a fuss over his reappearance."

"Chuck needs you, too," Marissa managed. "Last night, he--it wasn't good."

"I have a fairly good idea what he did last night."

"He's having a hard time." And still, as rotten as he had to be feeling, he'd come into her room when he'd heard her nightmare, and now this act of kindness. "He came back to Chicago as soon as he heard the news, but it hasn't been easy for him to be here."

"I have to admit, this place seems very strange without Gary Hobson in it." The sentiment was so close to what Marissa had just experienced in the loft that she had to blink back more tears. Gracie's voice lowered, softened. "He was a good man, and you had a friendship that ran deeper than most. I saw it from the beginning. To lose a friend like that--" But Marissa shook her head, and Aunt Gracie broke off, waiting. 

She opened her mouth, but no words would come out. Gracie's hand moved to her back and traced circles; Marissa could feel the band on her ring finger through her sweater. "There's more?"

She had to trust, to talk to, somebody. At this point, she'd already fallen apart. What more could she have to lose? It was a minute before she could frame her response. "Aunt Gracie, do you--" She swallowed hard, then forged ahead. "Do you believe in miracles?"

"Miracles?" The question wasn't scoffing or incredulous. It was gentle. "Of course I believe in them. I quite rely on them. At my age, every new day seems like a miracle of its own."

Marissa smiled, barely, and clasped her hands together. "I know, I agree, but what about old-fashioned, biblical miracles? Loaves and fishes, the lame walking, seas parting. That kind of thing."

"I see." There was a moment of silence; acknowledgment, rather than hesitation. "As a matter of fact, yes I do."

Marissa sucked in a breath, then added in a whisper, "Lazarus?" The hand fell from her back and she felt the little hope she had left, the hope that had prompted her trust, start to fray.

"What are you saying?"

"I think--" No, no she didn't just think. "I have reason to believe, that Gary might be alive, and in serious trouble." She lifted her hand as if to trace an explanation in the air, then dropped it helplessly. "The more I think about it, the worse it gets, and the harder it is to keep believing."

Another brief silence, then Aunt Gracie said, "The way I understand it, you were there when he fell in the lake." She didn't sound like Sergeant Piovanni;nthis wasn't an accusation. Marissa nodded. "Well, then I suspect you have more reason than anyone to know what happened."

"But I don't, that's just it. I just--I don't think it was what everyone else thinks happened. I don't believe Gary's at the bottom of the lake. I know it sounds crazy, and I don't know if I can tell you all of the reasons why, because they might not be mine to tell, but--"

"Marissa." Gracie shifted on the stair next to her, and her voice grew firm. "Listen to me. If you say it can be true, then that's good enough for me."

"It is?"

"No one else knows that boy like you do. Not even, I suspect, Charles." Once again, the long, gnarled fingers covered Marissa's own. "As far as I'm concerned, you're the expert in this matter, and you're the one I trust. If you think he is alive, then that's wonderful news, truly. Oh, dear. I should have brought more tissue, shouldn't I?"

For Marissa was tearing up again, gulping back sobs of relief. "You believe me?" She steepled her fingers, covering her mouth, and felt tears run between her fingers like scattered raindrops. Aunt Gracie reached over and stroked her hair, just like her grandmother had done, once upon a time, and then pulled Marissa's head down to her shoulder. She didn't resist; she had no resistance left. She rested her head on a cotton sweater and a thin, bony shoulder that somehow felt more comfortable than a goosedown pillow. 

"Of course I believe you." Aunt Gracie was still stroking her hair, her voice quiet but sure. "Don't let that nephew of mine, or anyone else, dissuade you. If they aren't strong enough to believe, it's their loss."

"That's just it, isn't it?" Marissa lifted her head, smeared leftover tears across her cheek with her palm. "They think I'm not strong enough to realize the truth, but it's _not_ the truth. Gary _isn't_ dead. We just have to find him, and help him and bring him back, but I don't know how. What if my faith isn't strong enough?"

"If that were the case, you wouldn't be asking the question. You are a person of tremendous faith. Tt's clear to anyone who knows you." Gracie's fingers lifted her chin, as if she wanted to look Marissa in the eye. Appropriate, that she should be spoken to as if she were a small child. She'd been acting like one the past few minutes. "Of course it isn't easy. If it were easy to believe, what would be the point?"

Marissa wasn't sure if she was being encouraged or gently chastised, until the fingers moved from her chin to her shoulder and squeezed in a gesture of mutual understanding. "I find that for people who do not believe, believing seems the easy part. They're wrong, of course. It's the most difficult feat of all, to find faith and hold onto it in the face of all that would destroy it. If you can do that, however, the rest follows. With faith come reasons, and with reasons come understanding."

"But I don't understand."

"You will, my dear. In time, you will." Gracie sighed, then chuckled. "Listen to me, I sound like a preacher, or a swami."

"I think you'd make a wonderful preacher," Marissa told her seriously.

"As many years as I've lived, I do believe that's the first time anyone's ever told me that."

"Could be," said a new voice that made Marissa sit up straight, "but you used to preach at me all the time."

"Chuck? Is that you?" Her cheeks warmed at the thought of what he might have overheard. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," Aunt Gracie told her quietly.

Chuck came closer; she could hear his footsteps on the lower stairs. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe I've been away too long."

"Maybe you came back just in time," his aunt said.

There was silence for a moment, then Chuck asked hesitantly, as if he hadn't asked the same question several times over the past few days, "Marissa, do you really believe this? You really think Gary's alive?"

"Yes," Marissa said, and Aunt Gracie squeezed her hand again, lending her strength. "I do." Biting her lip at the fear that came flooding back when she remembered why she needed Chuck to believe, she added, "But something's wrong."

"Don't tell me. He's in trouble again, and he needs our help." Now that sounded like the Chuck she remembered, even if his words bounced more sharply than usual in the narrow stairwell. "At least that's nothing new."

Fearful that she was misinterpreting, that it had been too easy to convince him this time, shesucked in a breath. "What are you saying?"

"Look, the one thing that's always made me nuts about you is that you always manage to be right--about Jeopardy questions, about my love life, about Gary and the pa--well, about Gary," Chuck finished quickly. "But even though you can drive me crazy, I've done enough gambling to know a good bet when I see it--even if everyone else thinks it's a long shot."

Aunt Gracie let out an indelicate snort.

"You gotta admit, sometimes it comes in handy." Chuck sounded like...well, like Chuck again, she thought, and her heart lifted. "Come on, you two, you're making me uncomfortable just looking at you. Let's at least go down to the office."

Marissa scooted to the side while Chuck helped his aunt to stand. When Gracie started down the stairs and Chuck took her own hand, she hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Sure, I want to help you. What are friends for? Besides," he added as he pulled her to her feet, "if you're right, Gary'll kill me if I don't help out. And if you're wrong, for once I get to be the one who says, 'I told you so.'"

"Charles Fishman, you will do no such thing," Aunt Gracie chided.

"Listen to that, will ya? She's just as bad as Gary ever was--is," Chuck corrected himself.

"We can work on the verb tenses later. Right now, we need to--" Marissa stopped. She wasn't really sure what they needed to do. It was such a shock to actually have allies, after the horrible morning, that she didn't know how to proceed. They joined Aunt Gracie in the office just as the door opened again.

"Everything okay in here?" Crumb asked. "I brought some sandwiches and stuff, if you want anything. I'm just gonna set 'em right on Hobson's desk, here." Marissa knew that last bit was for her benefit, as was Crumb's question: "You okay, kiddo?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I'm much better, Crumb. Thanks."

"Huh." He didn't exactly sound convinced. "You know, Lois and Bernie, they didn't mean to upset you."

"I know."

Crumb cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, they took off to see about a church."

"A church for what?" Chuck wanted to know. Marissa shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Closure," Crumb said briefly. Chuck took a breath, and Marissa knew he was about to ask more, but Aunt Gracie saved her from having to hear another explanation of the whole ghastly thing.

"Marion, I would dearly love a cup of tea. Do you think we could leave these young people to their own devices for a little while?"

"Okay, yeah." Marissa could feel Crumb's stare, his concern, and she flashed a wan smile his way, but he wasn't the one she spoke to as the pair passed her on their way to the kitchen.

"Aunt Gracie, wait." Marissa held her hand out, but Grace did her one better, pulling her into a warm, comforting embrace. "Thank you. If you hadn't been here, I don't know what I would have done." 

"Don't you give up," the older woman whispered. "I'll work on the big guy."

Marissa's laugh choked its way around the lump in her throat. If anyone could get through to Crumb, it had to be Grace Best. "Thank you," she said again, and Aunt Gracie squeezed her hand again before leaving the room with Crumb.


	18. Chapter 18

_You call for faith:  
I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.  
The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say,  
If faith overcomes doubt._  
~ Robert Browning

Chuck wandered over to the window, giving a wide berth to Spike, who sat on the floor near the couch. The dog's huge head swiveled to stare at both of the humans in the room; he looked at Chuck as if all this weirdness was his fault. One knee on the couch, Chuck craned his neck so that he could look out and up at the sky. The rain had stopped, but the clouds weren't about to break any time soon. He wondered if fall was going to settle in and cover the city like the wet blanket it could sometimes be. Gloom and doom weather was one thing he really hadn't missed about Chicago.

He turned himself around and flopped down on the couch; watched Marissa take one bite of a sandwich and pull off bits of crust, crumbling them onto the napkin she held. She just stood there doing that, not eating, not saying anything, lost in thought and nervous. Twitchy. She was definitely twitchy, and if the weather hadn't been enough to set Chuck on edge, that was. He wanted to ask her again if she really thought this was possible, if she really believed, but he knew better. Her answer wouldn't change, and he didn't want to irritate her. Poor kid had dealt with enough already. When he'd seen her with Aunt Gracie, eyes all puffy and red, makeup smeared, he'd--well, despite what some people seemed to think, Chuck Fishman did not have a heart of stone. 

And he didn't want her answer to change. He wanted to believe this.

Maybe he'd had enough of grief, and of everyone acting so differently. Maybe that was the difference; not that he did believe, not yet, but that he was willing to admit he wanted to.

It was more than just wanting, more than a desire for things to be the way they'd been half a year ago. Gary's disappearance really was strange. He'd even gotten Crumb to admit as much in the car that morning. Usually, the ex-cop had said, people who'd had "accidents" like Gary's turned up in a day or so, and given the extent of the search, there ought to have been something by now. "But that doesn't mean he's not down there," Crumb had added hastily. "Lotta stuff could have happened. You know Hobson. He was always the exception to the rule." 

Well, if that was true, Chuck thought with another sidelong glance at Marissa, then why not this exception? After all, he had some evidence of his own. He cleared his throat, trying to think of where to start. He didn't know how Marissa would react to what he was about to tell her. She might be thrilled, or she might be pissed with him for not telling him sooner. Either one would be fine, as long as she didn't start crying again.

She'd given up on the sandwich. It sat in a pathetic heap of wheat bread crumbs and ham on a napkin on the desk. "What is it, Chuck?" Wiping her fingers on a corner of the napkin, she turned to him, expectant. Man, that was what freaked him out about all this. Where'd she get so much hope? And what would happen to her if it turned out to be unfounded? "There's no going back now," she added as if she'd read his mind. "Whatever it is, say it."

"I saw Cat yesterday," he mumbled.

She gave a little jump, and the napkin's contents spilled onto the floor. Spike hurried over to inhale them.

"You did? Where--when--why didn't you say anything?"

Oh great. A little bit of both the reactions he'd been dreading. Gritting his teeth, he stood and paced past her to the filing cabinet, stared up at the Sistine Chapel reproduction on their wall. Gary's wall, he reminded himself. Marissa's wall. Not his anymore.

"At the lake. I went to--"

"Gary's bench?"

"How'd you know?"

Marissa made her way around the desk and sat in Gary's chair. She ran a hand over the armrest. "I was there this morning." There was an echo of something in her voice, something lost. Chuck tried to gloss over it with humor, even though he knew as he said it that he wasn't going to get away with it.

"And I left an imprint?"

"No. I felt drawn there, too. Maybe it's because everything started there, or maybe it's because Gary was so much himself there, but I can feel him there." She sighed, and so did Chuck, a sigh of relief because he wasn't nuts for thinking the same thing. Or at least if he was nuts, he wasn't alone.

"Yeah," he said instead of explaining that to Marissa. He told her about Cat's appearance on the path, about it sticking its paw out over the lake. "It pretty much freaked me out," he finished. "I had to--I got out of there and went to--uh--"

"Get soused," she finished. But she didn't sound judgmental about it.

"Yeah." 

"If Cat was there, and in the lab, he's trying to tell us something." Despite her washed-out appearance, she looked more determined than she had in the past two days. "Gary needs us."

Chuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked up at her. "Exactly what kind of trouble do you think he's in?" 

"There was fire." She reached up and rubbed her arms, as if she was suddenly cold. "And stone. But it was a cold place. It felt evil. I think he's hurt, Chuck, and scared."

His chest tightened. "Are you sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything, except that he needs our help." 

He felt something stir, something he hadn't felt in months. He got up and paced the length of the office. If Gary needed help, well, that was Chuck's department. Always had been, ever since they were kids. And no matter how weird the trouble, no matter how impossible the odds--he slammed his hand on the filing cabinet, and Marissa jumped. "This is right!" he exclaimed. "Chuck to the rescue! Why didn't I see it sooner?" 

To his surprise, Marissa broke into a smile, a little rough at the edges, but maybe that was the makeup smeared around her eyes. "I thought you thought I was crazy."

"Nah." He paced back over to her and punched her shoulder. "You're the psych major. I figure if you were going crazy, you'd know it."

"If you didn't before, you might now." She pushed herself up out of the chair and made her way to the filing cabinet; fished around in her bag for a few seconds, then extracted the crystal ball thingy. Turning back to Chuck with a deep breath, she said, "I feel Gary when I touch this."

He took a step back. "You _feel_ him?"

"Not every time, not right now, but sometimes. Once, yesterday, I thought I could feel his fingers, as though he was there reaching out to me. And today--I could tell, Chuck, he's somewhere dark and cold and there's a fire and he was scared." She blinked back tears, and Chuck was suddenly very glad that there wasn't much of anything in his churning stomach. "It was overwhelming. But I haven't felt him since. Will you try?"

"Me?" Chuck squeaked. "Try what?"

She held it out to him. "Hold it and think of Gary and see what happens. Please."

"What about his parents?"

"No," Marissa said emphatically. "They're so hurt, they couldn't even listen last night when I tried to explain." She closed her eyes for a second, and damn it, there _were_ tears squeezing out of there. What was he supposed to do about that? He wasn't Aunt Gracie. "They _couldn't_ listen. Chuck, please. It has to be you."

"You gotta be kidding me." Chuck stared at the innocent glass and metal trembling in Marissa's outstretched palm. 

"Please," she whispered again. "Just try."

He took a deep breath and reached out to touch it, but the door flew open. Marissa jumped, the ball tumbled out of her hands, and he made an instinctive, fumbling catch. It was heavier than he'd thought it would be, and he pulled it behind his back before looking up to see who'd come barging in. 

It was the kid, the bartender. "Oh, geez, sorry Miss Clark, Mr. Fishman."

"It's all right, Patrick." Marissa turned toward the new arrival; his eyes grew round, his jaw hung open for three full seconds. Chuck understood. Anyone who knew Marissa would never expect to see her with a hair out of place, let alone her makeup smeared and her eyes puffy. Patrick turned to Chuck, who shook his head, warning the kid to play it cool. 

Snapping his mouth shut, the bartender addressed Marissa. "Miss Clark? You've got company. I tried to tell them we were closed, but they kept saying they had to talk to you. I think it's about your school project."

"School project?" Chuck wondered.

"Oh!" Understanding broke over Marissa's features. "Chuck, these are the people who know about Gary's--our--the--" She gestured in his direction, and Chuck ran a thumb over the cool glass, still behind his back.

"You're doing a class project about Mr. Hobson?" Two seconds ago, Chuck wouldn't have thought it possible for Patrick's eyes to get any rounder, but now they did. "Not that it doesn't make sense, I mean, he had that sixth sense thing going, and you're a psychology student."

"Sixth sense?" Chuck asked, incredulous. Had Gary told this kid about the paper?

"I'll explain later." Marissa started toward the door, but Chuck cleared his throat. 

"We'll be out in a minute." He waited the two ticks it took for Patrick to take the hint.

"Oh, okay--uh--"

"Please get them something to drink." Marissa didn't resist Chuck's attempt to stop her, but he could feel how tense she was from the way her arm muscle bunched under his hand. When Patrick left, clicking the door closed behind him, she said, "He doesn't know about the paper, just that Gary gets feelings about the future. He figured out that much on his own after Gary needed his help with a couple of stories." 

"How did you--never mind." He released her arm and pulled the globe back out in front. "You might want to take a sec and freshen up before you go out there. I mean, you look like you've been through the wringer. I guess you have."

"We all have." Her hand flew up to her disheveled pony tail. "You're right, though, I am kind of falling apart." 

"Do you want to--uh--here." Chuck pressed the contraption into her hands. She just nodded. 

"Go on out," she said softly, tracing a finger over the glass ball. "I'll be there in a minute."

Out in the bar, it was still far too quiet for the middle of the day, the strangeness that had driven him to the office in the first place still hanging over the big room like a shroud. A man and a woman were at the far end of the bar, taking off their coats and exchanging pleasantries with Patrick while he poured sodas. The man shot a look Chuck's way when he heard the door close, but turned back to his companion almost immediately. Chuck looked around the bar; he saw no sign of Crumb or Aunt Gracie, and the employees who had been cleaning up earlier must have gone home, or retreated to the kitchen. And, like a tongue probing for a missing tooth, Chuck kept looking around for Gary, kept expecting him to pop up somewhere, somehow, and make this place feel right again.

"I'm ready." Marissa's quiet voice at his elbow pulled Chuck out of his reverie. Her hair was pulled back neatly, but she'd just wiped the makeup off without trying to reapply it. In her hands she carried the object of Chuck's curiosity and trepidation. "Josh?" she called.

"Hey, good to see you again." Grinning, the guy put his soda down and hurried down to the bar. He shook Marissa's outstretched hand. 

"Josh Gardner, this is Chuck Fishman. He's a friend of mine. He's interested in what you found out, too." Marissa twisted the scrying glass in her hands while they exchanged "Hey"s. Interested, Chuck thought. Yeah, good word. "Josh is the archaeologist I talked to yesterday," she explained. 

Chuck wasn't sure what to make of the new arrival. Josh Gardner wasn't exactly Indiana Jones. He had light brown hair, long enough to show its natural curl, and it was pulled back into a pony tail that just brushed the nape of his neck when he turned and beckoned the woman to join them. 

"Actually, I'm still a student," Josh explained, blinking blue eyes that were narrowed and already surrounded by lines, as if he'd been squinting out in the sunlight for most of his life.

"But everyone knows that grad students do all the work anyway," the woman finished. Like Josh, she wore jeans, sneakers, and a loose crewneck sweater, the Eddie Bauer look a couple of years past its prime. 

"True." Josh grinned again. "Marissa Clark, Betsy Cooper. I told you about her yesterday, she's an expert in--"

"Languages," Marissa finished, smiling faintly as she shook hands with the young woman. "I remember. Thank you for coming all the way up here."

"I had so much trouble reading Josh's chicken scratch, I thought it would be easier to see it up close, and when we couldn't reach you at home we decided to give this place a try." Betsy nodded briefly at Chuck, but her true attention was focused on what Marissa clutched in her left hand. Betsy squinted, too, but her peering was more myopic than Josh's, the kind that came from staring at computer screens, like the writers who came to Chuck trying to sell their scripts. She had auburn hair, so dark it was shading into chestnut, and it would have been gorgeous if she'd done anything other than clip it in the back, leaving the ends sticking up like alfalfa sprouts.

"Why don't we sit down?" Marissa suggested. "There's a table over in the corner." She headed for the farthest corner of the bar, and Chuck guessed she wanted to get these two out of the way in case Lois and Bernie came back. Patrick hustled over with their drinks, practically oozing curiosity along with his helpfulness, but Chuck wasn't too worried. He knew Marissa could handle the kid without hurting his feelings. He was staring at the bar, trying to decide what he wanted--or would need--to drink during the conversation that was coming, when Crumb pushed through the kitchen doors. 

"Need some mugs back there. Your aunt drink coffee or tea?"

"Uh, tea." Chuck was looking back at the corner, where Patrick was handing their sodas to Josh and Betsy, and a cup of coffee to Marissa. 

"What's going on?"

"They're some people Marissa met at the university yesterday. She thinks they might know something about that crystal ball Gary had." Chuck eyed the Scotch on the back counter, but Crumb pounded a third mug on the counter in front of him and grabbed the coffee pot. 

"Look like a couple of hippies," he said as he poured.

"You think anyone with hair longer than yours is a hippie." Chuck accepted the coffee, Crumb's silent admonition, and took a sip. 

"He's got a ponytail," Crumb pointed out. He poured his own coffee, leaning his elbows on the bar.

"It's the size of my thumb! They aren't hippies, they're grad students. Archaeologists. The hair is like a uniform with those types. I mean, c'mon, Crumb, it's no longer than mine."

One bushy eyebrow lifted. "That's not saying much these days. So what is it, do you plan to hold a séance?"

"Yeah, sure." He flashed Crumb a look that belied his answer. "She thinks they might know something that'll help us find Gary."

"Find him." Crumb stared at him for a moment, an unreadable expression flashing out from under his eyebrows. "Archaeologists. You think he's down at the bottom of the lake looking for the _Titanic_?"

"In Lake Michigan? More like the _Edmund Fitzgerald_."

"Oh, I love that song!" Patrick had returned, and he handed Crumb a tin of teabags from the counter behind the bar. "Aunt Gracie likes these," he added, and, humming, busied himself arranging bottles on the back counter.

Patrick called her Aunt Gracie? Things really had changed since he'd gone, but right now it really wasn't all that important. "I gotta get over there."

"Fishman." Chuck looked back at Crumb, who gestured at the table with the pot of hot water. "You need anything, you let me know."

"Yeah, sure." Chuck knew he meant more than food and drinks. "Thanks." Crumb grunted as Chuck made his way across the room and pulled out the last available chair.

"Okay, here's how it breaks down." Her voice, her expression, everything about Betsy Cooper was animated. The crystal ball sat on the table in front of her, and she waved her hands around it like some hack psychic at a county fair--except her nails were short and plain instead of bright red and pointy. "Josh was right. The construction's old, maybe even ancient, and probably one of the British Celt cultures. Silver and quartz. Where they found a piece this clear, I have no idea. But the language, what it says, that's not so old. Maybe Twelfth or Eleventh Century. It's a Gaelic dialect."

"Wait a minute," Chuck squeaked. "Eleventh _Century_?"

"Oh, yeah. This design goes back at least that far," Josh said, "and the way the silver's been worked is consistent with other artifacts of that era."

"But, uh--" Chuck turned to Marissa, who gripped the table edge and sat forward, her posture more tense than even Crumb's coffee could account for. He wasn't sure he knew where to start asking questions. "Who was living here back then? Stray leprechauns?"

"This isn't from here," Betsy said patiently. She tilted her head, and her alfalfa sprout hair waved at Chuck. "It's Gaelic. It was made in what we now call the British Isles."

Chuck frowned, not at the linguist, but at the crystal ball. If that was true, then what did this have to do with Gary?

"What about the inscription?" Marissa insisted. Her hands curled atop the table on either side of her coffee mug, but Chuck was pretty sure the others wouldn't notice. Even now, anyone who didn't know her wouldn't realize how much she was holding back.

"That's why I needed to see it. I think I have some of it, but I can hardly read Josh's handwriting." Betsy hefted a full backpack onto the table beside her. She extracted a couple sheets of paper, covered with scrawling black pen and smaller, neat printing in green, out of the backpack. 

"Hey, don't blame me." Josh lifted the ball and peered at the underside, then handed it over to his partner. "Some of those letters are almost completely gone." 

It was quiet for a few seconds while Betsy squinted at the underside of the stand. She pulled a penlight out of the front pocket of her pack and shone it on the metal.

"There's writing under there?" Chuck hissed at Marissa. She nodded. 

"Well, these last two letters aren't gone." Betsy flashed Josh a frown. She shifted the crystal ball to one hand and scanned through the papers in front of her. "You didn't even write them down."

"What are you talking about?"

"Right here, look at this." Betsy and Josh put their heads together, then Josh looked up at Chuck and Marissa, brow furrowing.

"What is it?" Marissa asked. 

"There are a couple of letters here that he missed."

"I didn't miss them, Bets." Josh was still shooting his perplexed frown across the table. "I swear they weren't there. You guys didn't mess with it, did you?"

"No, I didn't do anything to it," Marissa assured him. "And Chuck was out last night. He didn't know about the writing."

"No one did this last night." Betsy used a pencil point to indicate--what? Chuck leaned forward, but he still couldn't tell what they were talking about. "See how the edges of the letters are worn away? Not as much as the others, but they aren't new. They could change the meaning, but it doesn't make any sense. Josh, take a look at the way they're carved. Notice anything?"

"Yeah, they're a lot cruder. But I don't get it. Why would anyone add that? It's not even a word, it's an ending. Even I know that."

"What is it?" Chuck demanded.

"In Gaelic it's a word ending, but here it's not attached to anything," Betsy mumbled. "It'd be like putting 'ing' at the end of a sentence, after the period."

Sick and tired of being the odd man out, Chuck sighed. "So you're talking about a couple of letters? What about the rest of it?"

"Marissa, you try. I need someone to defend my honor here." Josh pressed the globe into her hands and guided her fingers. "Feel it? Right there. That wasn't there yesterday, was it?"

Chuck peered over Marissa's arm; finally, he could see the carving they were talking about, but couldn't make sense of the scribbling lines. For all he knew, they weren't even letters.

Marissa finally shook her head. "I'm not sure. I can't tell what it says. I don't remember letter shapes very well. It does feel a little rougher than the rest of them."

"What does it mean?" asked Chuck.

"That's just it; this might change what it means," Betsy said impatiently. "May I have it back?" She spent a few minutes checking her papers against the base of the globe, turning it this way and that and sticking her nose right up against the metal. Josh watched Betsy; Chuck alternated between sipping his coffee and looking from Betsy to Marissa--Marissa, who pulled her hands into her lap and sat as tense as a director at a financing meeting. He wondered absently how many of those he was missing. Not many, if his past track record was any indication.

Finally, Betsy looked up at all of them. "Okay, here's what I was trying to translate last night," she said. "There's a word here that I think is a name: Efflam. Then there's a verse:

"Aon de misneach, aon de creideamh,  
Aon d'amharc glan;  
Fite fuaite in am an ghátair  
Beidh siad an mallacht dragan."

"Oh, that's real helpful," Chuck drawled into the puzzled silence that followed her pronouncement. It had all sounded like a bunch of tongue-swallowing nonsense to him.

Betsy lifted her eyebrows at him with a grin that he might once have found suggestive. "It roughly translates to..." She flipped one of the papers over. "Here:  
One of courage, one of belief...probably faith,  
One of clearest sight,  
Woven...or tangled...or something, I'm not sure...  
when need is...something...  
will break the curse of the dragon."

"Doesn't sound so rough to me," Josh said, admiration evident in his voice. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Nice work, Coop."

Betsy shrugged and pulled a worn, oversized paperback out of her backpack. Thumbing through it--it was some kind of dictionary, Chuck realized--she said, "I filled in the holes with some guesses, and they turned out to be close, now that I look at the real thing. I think I might have seen this verse somewhere before, but for the life of me, I can't remember where. It's typically vague. Could be an incantation, or an invocation. That line about clearest sight is probably a reference to truth."

"The Celtic druids were really big on the power of truth," Josh explained. "Not as a virtue, but as an actual power. In some of their stories, speaking the truth out loud could tear down walls and put them back together again."

"What do you think this incan-whoozeewhatsit was supposed to do?" Chuck still wasn't convinced that all this effort meant anything. He'd been expecting some cosmic road map to Gary, but this didn't sound like it was anything but an old rhyme. 

"Break the curse," Betsy said, flipping through the pages of her dictionary.

"Yeah, but a _dragon's_ curse?"

"It could mean anything." Without looking up at Chuck, she trailed her finger down a page, then pulled out a green pen from the pack and started writing on the napkin next to her soda.

"What about the extra letters?" Marissa asked. "Do they change anything? Are they important?"

"I don't know," Betsy mused. "They don't seem to be. They don't change the meaning, tacked on at the end like that, but just to have a random 'gh' in there seems very strange. I wonder if the rest of the word was rubbed off somehow."

Her mug halfway to her mouth, Marissa froze so abruptly that coffee sloshed out onto her hand. Chuck took the cup away, staring at his friend. "What did you say the letters were?" she whispered.

"GH. It's a very common ending in the Gaelic languages."

"It couldn't have been rubbed off," Josh insisted, peering over Betsy's shoulder. "Everything before it makes sense, according to you, and after it there's a little blank space, where I don't think anyone ever wrote anything."

Chuck barely heard the young man over the pounding in his ears. He set the mug down carefully, then covered Marissa's hand, still arrested midway to her mouth, with his own, and lowered them both to the table. 

"It looks different from the other lettering?" Marissa asked in a shaky voice.

Josh looked up, his eyes widening when he noticed Chuck and Marissa's shocked reactions. "What's wrong?"

"Show them to Chuck. Please." She twisted her hand so that she was gripping Chuck's, asking him for confirmation with the pressure of her fingers. He had to pull his hand away to take the weird little thing. "Chuck, do you recognize--" She didn't finish. 

"I can see how it could be those letters," he said carefully. Betsy offered him her flashlight, and he shone it on the underside of the base. The carvings were there, indistinct and blurred by time, blurred in Chuck's mind as well, because he couldn't even tell what letters some of the squiggles were supposed to be. But when Josh tapped a finger at a particular spot, Chuck squinted and focused the flashlight on it, and yeah, that could be a GH. He gulped.

"Is it possible those are initials?" Marissa asked. 

Betsy shrugged. "They could be anything."

Chuck set the crystal ball down, handed the flashlight back to Betsy. This was too weird. What could it mean if Gary's initials were on some ancient relic? How many people in the past few hundred years had those same initials? 

"And they weren't there yesterday?" Marissa pressed. "Josh, are you sure?"

The young man looked from Marissa to Betsy and back, nearly as confused as Chuck felt. "I don't know for sure. But I just think I would have noticed them. Betsy, I can see them in the lighting here, in a bar. I would have seen them in the lab." He stared at Marissa, who sat stock-still, one hand covering her mouth. "Your friend. The one who gave you this scrying glass. The one who drowned the other day. I went back and looked at the paper. His name was Gary Hobson."

The theme from _The Twilight Zone_ tinkled in the back of Chuck's head, and he sucked in a breath. Betsy raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to her partner.   
"You do realize, Gardner, that if this is another one of your pseudoscience magical theories I'll have to haul out _Demon-Haunted World_ and whap you on the head with it."

Josh was still staring at the crystal ball. "Wouldn't be the first time," he muttered.  


* * *

  
_I think rather of the mysterious last petitions of Lord's Prayer:  
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. A petition  
against something that cannot happen is unmeaning. There exists  
the possibility of being placed in positions beyond one's power._  
~ J. R. R. Tolkien

The afternoon wore on in halting conversations and fruitless plans. There had to be some way out. Gary kept telling himself that; even told Morgelyn a few times, though he wasn't sure she heard him. He went on talking anyway, telling her everything that had passed between him and Father Ezekiel, and then about the night before at Nessa's--almost everything. He didn't want to explain that kiss. Considering all that had happened since, just thinking about it made him queasy. 

Nodding absently, Morgelyn kept right on with her self-appointed task in their search for an escape, using her good hand to trace the stones in the walls for a crack that was more than ancient construction crumbling to ruin. Gary was doing the same with the floor stones, pushing the layer of straw, dank with age and grime and he didn't want to know what else, into a pile in the far corner as he searched for a trap door, a seam in the stone, a loose rock concealing an escape tunnel or something. Anything. 

He tried to stifle his grunts and groans, but it wasn't easy. There were aches and pains in his shoulder, ribs, and legs, and a constant dull throb in his head. The only advantage to having been a punching bag was that no one injury could really bother him all that much. Instead, they took turns; before one could become overwhelming, another would start up. 

"And then Fergus and--well, Fergus came out in the hallway and made too much noise, so we had to hustle back to the main room. I don't think Nessa knew it was us, though." There was no response; Gary glanced across the room and saw that Morgelyn had stopped to rest her burned hand on the cool stone. It didn't seem to help. Her mouth was still drawn in a tight, thin line, and her eyes remained unfocused, as if her mind or her spirit or both were trying to escape, not just this prison, but her own body as well. Gary'd had enough minor burns to know how long and how fiercely they could hurt if he didn't get ice on them right away, but something like this--setting his own jaw in a tight square, he ignored the protest from his bruised muscles and doubled his efforts. He didn't know what else he could do to make things better. He most definitely did not want to think about how much worse they could get. But if the paper wanted him there--and it had sent him to Morgelyn's house that morning to make sure he'd be here now, of that he was certain--then there had to be a way out. 

"You keep saying that. But how do you know?"

Morgelyn's soft, weary question startled Gary. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. Turning from kicking more spoiled straw out of his way, he found her leaning against the wall just under the window, eyes closed. 

"I told you how I know." It was only a couple long steps across the room, and he was close enough to lower his voice to a whisper, a relief, because his throat was still sore from yelling earlier. "Because this stuff always happens for a reason. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't supposed to help you, if there wasn't some way to get out of this."

She didn't open her eyes, didn't move. 

"Look, you don't have to do this. Why don't you rest. Sit down, okay?" He reached for her arm, meaning to guide her over to the stairs. For some reason they seemed safer, less dirty, maybe because the afternoon sun was falling on them. But she went limp and sank right to the floor, teetering a little, instinctively reaching out with both hands to catch herself. She sucked in a breath when Gary caught her left arm before her hand could make contact. Kneeling next to her on the floor, he realized with a flip of his stomach that she was shaking, staring off into semi-darkness, into nothing.

"Morgelyn? You with me?" Gary waved his free hand in front of her face. What was going on, why was she zoning like this? 

"I'm cold," she whispered

"I know." But he didn't. It was cool for June, maybe, but not worth shivering over.

"So cold, but it burns." She looked down at her hand, and Gary released her wrist.

"Morgelyn, look at me." He shook her shoulder. "Do you know who I am?" 

She blinked at him, the light of recognition returned to her eyes, and the world tilted back to normal. "Gary." Letting out a deep breath, she shifted back against the wall. Her movements were slow, but her eyes weren't so unfocused and disconnected. "It hurts. I cannot stop it."

"Your hand hurts?"

She nodded, still shaking. "The pain waxes and wanes. But there is nothing we can do for it here." Her stare went to the doorway. "This is what they wanted all along."

"Hey, stay with me." Gary's voice rose as he tried to keep her attention by sticking his face in close to hers. "Keep talking, look at me when you talk to me, okay?"

"...do not wish to go back..."

"Morgelyn, look at me, stay with me," he repeated, mentally adding to his tally of stupid Hobsonisms. Who'd want to stay down here? But she had to, because otherwise it would mean she was losing her grip, going into shock. Oh hell, was that what was happening? 

"How can we withstand this evil?" she murmured, but to the shadows, not to him. 

He tried to remember anything he'd ever heard about shock, but all he could conjure up was blankets--people on TV rescue shows piling blankets on victims who were slipping into delirium or unconsciousness. He didn't have any blankets, didn't even have a coat to wrap around her shoulders. Why hadn't he realized right away that this could happen? 

Fighting back the panic that had become his constant companion, he tried to think of something that would help. Boots, he realized with a guilty start when she pulled her bare feet under her skirt, huddling into a tight ball. He'd thought of them once, back when, and then forgotten entirely. It was easy enough to unlace the boots that he'd been wearing and hold them out to Morgelyn, finally recapturing her attention. "You're going to put these on, okay? I'll help."

"Your boots?" She stared at him, but at least she was looking at him, and not through.

"C'mon, you'll be warmer if your feet are covered, and I'm not gonna let that goon step on your toes again."

Eyes going wide, Morgelyn sat up straight. "Are they coming back?"

"No!" But he couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder at the door, just to be sure. "God, no. I just meant if they do, it would be better if you had these on. Here, give me your foot."

One breath, then another, and she was back, looking right at him. "What about you?"

"I love going barefoot, did it all the time as a kid." Gary didn't add that, as a kid, he'd never been locked up in a dungeon with rotting straw and rats. "Besides, it's your turn, okay?" He grabbed the foot that peeked out from under the torn hem of her dress before she had a chance to change her mind.

"What is a goon?"

"A wha--oh." Luckily, the boots were soft and flexible enough that with a little creative tucking and lacing they almost fit her feet. "It's someone who enjoys hurting other people." Gary watched Morgelyn closely as he put on the second boot. Her shaking had subsided into an occasional shiver by the time he'd finished. "Does that help any?"

"My hero," Morgelyn whispered by way of an answer, and shook her head when he protested. "You truly are." Crossing her arms tight against her chest, she drew back against the wall again. "Were I alone, I doubt I would be sane right now. Fergus was right. I am not strong enough for this."

"No one is." Gary rocked back on his heels. "But if you ask me, you're doing better than most people would."

A ghost of a smile crossed Morgelyn's face, then flitted away. "Where do you think he went?"

"Fergus? I don't know." Gary stood and resumed his search through the straw, though he kept close to Morgelyn as he worked--without result. There were plenty of cracks in the old stone, but none of them led anywhere.

"Would they bring Fergus here, too? Do you think they would hurt him?"

"He's not in the story in your book, so I think it's more likely that he's run off somewhere to hide. Maybe he'll come back if he thinks it's safe." He faltered on the last word, and kicked the remains of the straw into the corner with a vicious movement that sent a stab up the back of his leg. Idiot. Why'd he have to go and remind her that it wasn't safe now, and it wasn't going to get any safer? 

"You mustn't blame him if he does not."

"But he's your friend." Supposed to be mine, too, Gary thought.

"Yes. And he has been my friend for a very long time, through some difficult, awful times. He may come back, but if he does not, I will understand." Her words rose up to Gary through the shadows, quiet but insistent. "He's not used to being in one place, to having roots. He never knew his family, did he tell you that?"

"Kind of hinted at it, I guess." The end of his fruitless task left him drained. He settled in next to her, gritting his teeth as he eased his legs onto the unyielding stone. His feet were cold, and already blacker than the shadows around them, but at least now he could be sure that giving Morgelyn the boots had made a difference.

"He was a foundling, left at an abbey in Scotland." Her legs were still curled under her skirts, and her voice went a little faraway, but not like it had before. She sounded like she had when she'd told stories to the children. "The monks raised him for a while and tried to make him into a scribe, or an apothecary, but I believe he must have travel in his blood. He ran away when he was very young, not even a man yet, and made his way all through the world, singing and storytelling, as he would have it, but more likely talking--and probably sometimes stealing--his way into a meal here, a bit of clothing there, and the occasional night by a hearth fire. He has hardly ever stayed more than a week in the same place since."

Gary frowned. "But if he knows you need his help--"

"What if he cannot help? He will not be able to bear it if--he won't stay and watch." Morgelyn closed her eyes and swallowed. "I am the closest thing he has to a family, and he may not be able to make himself stay if he believes that I--that we--" She picked at a rip on her sleeve. "--that there is nothing he can do to help. If that book is telling the truth, then I would rather he did go. I would rather have him safe."

"There has to be something he can do to help. He shouldn't just give up."

Propping her elbows on her knees, Morgelyn rested her forehead in her hands. "He cannot pull us out that tiny window, and not a soul will listen to him in this town, not now."

He craned his neck, trying to get a read on what she was feeling. She sounded completely used up. "You aren't giving up, are you?" If she ran out of hope, what was the point?

"I do not see how. If Father Ezekiel believes the Dragon's Eye is evil magic, he will not defend us. And if he does not believe it--" She gestured at the doorway with an open palm. "Why is he not here?"

As if on cue, footsteps sounded in the hall outside their door. Scrambling to his feet, Gary held his breath, praying he'd been right. Iron grated on iron, then clattered on stone. "Salve nos," Morgelyn whispered behind Gary; the door creaked open, and a small figure stepped through. 

"Really, this place is perfectly awful," Nessa declared with a regal sniff. The two guards at her heels, she crossed the landing carefully, her nose wrinkled as she peered into the gloom. Glad for the shadows that shrouded his face and hid his surprise, Gary stepped away from Morgelyn, hoping she'd stay back there in the dark, unnoticed and safe. 

"Gary, is that you? Oh, dear, how have you borne this?" Nessa glided down the stairs, skirts held high, staying in the faint light the way a model would stay within range of a camera lens. Hearing a soft rustle behind him, Gary motioned for Morgelyn to stay where she was and took a step toward Nessa. "This has been a terrible mistake," she said with what sounded like genuine worry in her voice. Hands on her hips as she surveyed the gloom, she declared, "You must leave this dreadful place."

Nessa was the last person Gary would have cast in the role of savior, but it didn't matter whose the idea was. It was the best one he'd heard all day. "Thank you," he breathed, and turned to offer a hand to help Morgelyn up. But as he pulled her to her feet, Nessa's soft chuckle sent a chill down his spine.

"Not her. Have they addled your wits?"

He spun back around. Part of his brain was scolding him for having trusted her even for a split second when a few minutes ago he'd been willing to blame her for the whole thing, but the other part, the part that hoped, still wanted to believe this could happen. Both his hands came out, first pleading with Nessa, then gesturing back at his friend. "Lady Nessa, I don't know what you think is going on here, but Morgelyn's not a witch, and they've already hurt her." The kick at his ankle was light, more of a nudge, but that and the desperate look Morgelyn flashed him were enough to stop him from going into details. "You have to get us out of here, both of us."

A bark of a laugh came from the shorter guard. Nessa silenced him with a look, then turned back to Gary. 

"I came for you, Gary. Only you." Her voice dropped to a softer, more seductive tone. "After last night, I should think you know why." The filtered sunlight on her face couldn't hide the way her gaze slipped past Gary to Morgelyn, telegraphing jealous triumph. It all came clear to him in that moment. This was some kind of contest to her. Everything was a contest in her world. Nessa thought she'd won this one. She honestly believed he'd leave Morgelyn alone, with no one to stand between her and those guards and the men upstairs. 

She made a clucking noise as she touched his sleeve. "They have hurt you, I can see that, and for that, I am sorry. I only sent the guards to stop the rioting in the village, and my guest, Brother Banning, has been kind enough to offer his services to help quell this unrest." The touch turned into a caress, sending goosebumps of revulsion crawling over Gary's skin. "If I had known you would leave to throw yourself in harm's way, I would have stopped you. You must believe me. After last night, I thought we were friends." Wide grey eyes blinked once at him, and her lips curled in a suggestive smile. "I thought we were more than friends."

Gary held his breath again, sense warring with fury. Just how stupid did she think he was? He knew better than to let the full extent of his anger show, not with those guards up there with their weapons, not with Morgelyn an easy target just behind him, but he was tired of playing games. "Nessa," he said, pushing the anger away and forcing himself to match her calm tone, "if you really cared about me, you'd get us out of here."

"Which is what I intend to do." Her hand fell away from his arm, and her smile seemed to say that all was now settled. "I will tell them all that you are my ally, on my side, and they'll drop any charges against you."

"What about Morgelyn?" Behind him, she took a step closer, sucking in a breath as if she were about to say something. He tried to motion to her to keep quiet with a wave behind his back. But Nessa had noticed, too. She tilted her head, stared at Morgelyn for a moment with a gaze as sharp as steel, then blinked, carefully placid, as her attention returned to Gary.

"There is nothing more to be done for her." The cold, matter-of-fact tone might have been appropriate for a broken toy, but not a human being. "I know you believe you are being kind, and it makes you more of a gentleman than even I thought possible, but surely you know that the villagers would attack her if I were to set her free. This is the kindest thing we can do. Giving her a chance to confess her sins before she leaves this world is an act of generous mercy."

"M--mercy?" Gary sputtered. This was beyond insane. Once again, he sensed movement behind him, and turned to see Morgelyn, her mouth working but no sound coming out, eyes wide with fear and anger and incredulity. She cradled her injured hand to her side. "I won't--" he started to tell her, but Nessa clenched her hand around his arm again, demanding his attention by digging her nails through the rough cloth of his shirt. 

"Gary, listen to me. Listen to reason. Everything I offered you last night can still be yours. All of it."

For a moment, their eyes locked. His next words were forced through a clenched jaw. "If you think I would do this, you don't know me at all."

Hard anger flashed across Nessa's face, then was gone, replaced with the smooth, satisfied mask. "I know exactly who you are, Gary Hobson," she said with such absolute certainty that his stomach did a somersault. She straightened her shoulders and her eyes went cold as a snow sky. "You are the dragon slayer." She raised one eyebrow at Gary's stunned, open-mouthed reaction and Morgelyn's faint whispered, "No..."

"The--the what?" Gary stammered. How much did she know?

"Dragon slayer." Nessa lifted her hand from his arm and gestured at Morgelyn, who'd stepped forward and was now standing at Gary's side. "Her legendary hero. You are too unlike any man I have ever known to be anything but extraordinary, and while the people of Gwenyllan may be a pack of simpletons, I most certainly am not."

"I've never even seen a dragon!" Grasping for firm footing in a conversation that seemed to have taken a right turn off a cliff, he ignored the voice in his head that whispered, until now...

"Dragons are not what interest me." Obviously satisfied with the upper hand she'd gained, Nessa pointed a long finger at Gary. "You know--you both know--something about that treasure. It is real, and somehow you are a part of the story. Where is it?" she pressed, lifting her hand up and out as if she expected to be told it was somewhere in that dungeon. "Where is the dragon's treasure?"

"W--what treasure?" Gary was no actor. He couldn't play innocent for long, but he had to try. Father Ezekiel knew about the Dragon's Eye, about the magic, but Gary still refused to believe that he'd ever sell Morgelyn out. But if Nessa knew, and if she convinced the others to believe it, his friends were doomed.

"The Dragon's Eye. Morgelyn is not the only one who can read. There is an account of that same story in the records of the manor house. We searched this place high and low, but found no treasure. Unless it is buried with Efflam--and I hardly think that is the case--someone in the village must have it. Someone who thinks she knows what is best for all her neighbors. Someone who might know enough about the old ways to actually make it work." She tilted her chin at Morgelyn with a cold smile, and Gary could feel Morgelyn vibrating--with fear or fury, he wasn't sure. "A witch indeed," Nessa added before lifting an eyebrow at Gary. "It brought you here, did it not?"

His mind raced. Did he try to lie about it all? Did he confess to part of the truth she wanted to hear? What would get them out, both of them, safe? What would Nessa believe, and what would she do to get what she thought she wanted? He sucked in a breath of rank air, then let it out in a rush. "I can show you where it is."

"Gary, no!"

Ignoring Morgelyn's hissed protest, he took a step closer to Nessa, forcing her to crane her neck to keep him in her sights. It wouldn't be worth anything, not to Nessa, but it would be a chance, a deal he could make. His voice was steady and deliberate. "You let Morgelyn go. Right now. She has nothing to do with this. You let her go, and I'll get you the Dragon's Eye."

"You will do no such thing," Morgelyn snapped. "You cannot. The entire village--"

"Hold your tongue, girl, or I will have the guards do it for you." At a quick motion of Nessa's upraised hand, the men hurried down the stairs. Gary felt Morgelyn's shaky fingers curl around his arm, just above the elbow, and a lump the size of a basketball lodged in his esophagus. 

Apparently satisfied, Nessa turned her attention back to Gary. Her eyes were glowing with--with what? Triumph? Greed? "Bring me to the Dragon's Eye, and you can have anything you want."

"No, you let Morgelyn go, first, right now, and then I'll get it for you."

"That is not a choice. I simply meant that her end could be quick and relatively painless." Nessa raised one manicured hand and snapped her fingers at the guards, who came a few steps closer. "Or we can let Brother Banning continue his work until he has secured her confession."

Forget about bargains, forget about games. Gary's next step backed Nessa up toward her own guards, and he didn't even try to hide the fury in his voice. "I'm telling you right now, you let them get any closer to her, lay one hand on her, and this conversation is over. It's all over, you can forget about me or about the Dragon's Eye or getting anything, anything at all out of this except the deaths that will be on your head."

"On my head?" A glimmer of doubt shot through Nessa's cool facade. "If blood is to be shed here, it will hardly be my responsibility."

"It will be, if you let this happen when you have the power to stop it." Gary took a deep breath, and wondered how to reach the more humane version of the lady he'd seen the night before. "Don't do this Nessa, it isn't worth it. You don't know what you've unleashed here. You're not just going to own this village, you're going to destroy it. Those people aren't any good to you if they're sick or dead." 

"Their land will be enough," she said. 

"But if the story is true--"

"Then I can have the treasure and the land both, and that is the only truth I care for."

"You wouldn't know the truth if it was standing right in front of you. Which, by the way, it is." Gary gestured back at Morgelyn; he could feel her staring at him, wide-eyed and just as scared and angry as he was. 

The cold, harsh light in Nessa's eyes, even in the dimness of the basement, took his breath away. "You would stay in this filth, waiting for an end that will only be painful, a vain death that will accomplish nothing?"

"No," Morgelyn breathed. Stepping back to her side, Gary put a hand on her shoulder, determined to make sure that she knew he wouldn't, not for one second, leave her there alone. 

"If the choice is going with you, or staying here, I'll stay. The company's a lot better."

Every trace of pretense fled. Nessa clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides and gave a short, disbelieving breath of a chuckle before fixing Gary with the same cold, assessing look she'd been giving Morgelyn all along. "You are making a grievous mistake," she said quietly, then pronounced, "It is a shame that Banning did not have time to finish his lesson. That can be remedied shortly." The way she looked at Morgelyn, like a lioness taking possession of a carcass, drove every inbred notion about how a gentleman should treat a lady from Gary's head. If not for the guards, he would have...well, what? Anything, he promised himself fiercely, anything to stop the shoulder under his hand from shaking.

"Get out," he growled. 

Something in Nessa's face changed, and just for a moment he saw that little girl again, the one he knew was in there somewhere. He could have sworn she was asking him not to make her do this, to give her a way out that wouldn't involve killing that innocence forever. Did the part of her that was still so young and vulnerable know what she was doing? Did she understand the responsibility she bore for what was about to happen? It didn't matter, because she was buried, lost inside the other Nessa, the stronger, harder one who'd protected that little girl to death.

Nessa blinked, and all that uncertainty fled, this time, Gary was sure, for good. "I am certain Brother Banning can find out the location of the Dragon's Eye from one of you, or both. He will send for you when he is ready. When you are broken and burning, begging for mercy," she said to Gary, "remember how I offered it and more, and how you refused." Head held high, she turned and swept up the stairs. The guards let her pass, then followed her up and out. 

Gary watched grimly, hardly noticing when Morgelyn laid her hand on his arm.

"Gary. Gary look at me." He started and stared down at her, at the tears shining up at him from her eyes. "Call her back. Tell her you will go. There is nothing else to be done. You cannot help me anymore, not down here, and maybe--"

"Maybe nothing. She would have had me thrown right back down here the moment she got her hands on it."

"But you could use it, Gary; you could get home. Please, call her back." Morgelyn started for the stairs. "I will, if you do not."

"No!" Gary grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him. "You listen to me. We are in this together. In the time it would take to get the Dragon's Eye back from Father Ezekiel, if he'd even hand it over, they could--" Shuddering, he dropped her arm and ran a hand through his hair. "God, Morgelyn, he'd kill me on the spot for leaving you here with those animals. At least we know now that he probably still has it, and hasn't told the others about it, and right now, that's the best news I can think of." 

"Then where is he?" Arms crossed over her chest, Morgelyn gazed around the room as if she expected the priest to appear out of thin air. "Why does he not come to our aid? And where is Fergus?"

Why didn't she ask him something easy, like where the paper came from, or how they were going to find their way out through walls of solid stone? "I don't know," he admitted, watching the light fade on the patch of moor he could see through the window. "I just don't know."  


* * *

  
_It could be witches  
Some evil witches  
\--which is ridiculous  
'cause witches  
they were persecuted  
Wicca good  
and love the earth  
and women power--  
And I'll be over here._  
~ Joss Whedon

"What are you saying, Marissa? Are those Gar's initials?"

Marissa knew how confused Chuck was, how intensely curious Josh was, and how exasperated Betsy was becoming. She could feel it all, those strong emotions churning around her, threatening to overwhelm her again. And all she wanted was to hold the object of all this intensity and connect with Gary again, even if--even if--

She gulped and swallowed, her rational mind re-exerting itself. She couldn't go unloading everything she believed, everything she felt, to a couple of strangers, no matter what their intentions. There was a reason Gary didn't tell every nice person he met about the paper. She gulped in air, which seemed suddenly scarce. "It could be a coincidence. As Betsy said, those letters could mean anything." It wasn't the truth, and she hid her consternation with herself by sipping at her coffee. In the process of groping for her mug, she made sure that her fingers brushed Chuck's arm, trying to tell him that she needed to talk with him, that they needed to figure this out together. 

"Sure they could," Josh said slowly, but not as if he believed it.

Betsy sighed. "Look, Josh, you know I'm as open-minded as they come, especially when it comes to your theories. If the evidence is there, anything is possible. But these letters couldn't possibly have been put here by someone in the Twentieth Century. The carving's too old. You know that. You're the antiquities expert."

Marissa schooled her features, hoping she could hide the tornado of fear and hope that was threatening to tear her apart. It might be a leap of faith, but the conclusion she was ready to draw tugged at her heart with its very rightness. "Do you know when they were carved? Can you tell?"

"Not really," Betsy said. "Two random letters don't give us enough context. But they did come later, from the looks of the craftsmanship."

"Or lack of it," added Josh. "If we had it in the lab for a couple weeks, we might be able to analyze any micro-fragments that might be left in it."

Weeks? Marissa opened her mouth to protest, but Chuck jumped in. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"But if we knew for sure--" Betsy began.

"It's just not possible right now." Chuck's voice was curt and tight and left no promise of an explanation. Marissa could have hugged him on the spot. 

"Well, okay then," Josh said in a placating tone. "Maybe if we--"

"Does anybody need more Coke over here?" Patrick's voice chirruped in Marissa's ear, and she jumped. Sometimes she could understand Gary's perpetual annoyance with the young man. He always seemed to turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The thought was too close to Gary's standard explanation; her hands started trembling again. Pulling them into her lap and leaving the others to accept or decline Patrick's offer, she focused on stilling her fingers, on regulating her breathing, on holding on to the tenuous facade of normalcy by pushing possibilities away from the center of her thoughts. She was too tired, too wound up, too overtaxed to think sensibly, to trust the leaps her heart was making. There was one thought worth holding onto, and it was all that mattered right now. No matter what she'd said, Gary's initials could not be a coincidence. She refused to accept it.

Inhale, exhale, and listen. 

"And we've got potato skins in the kitchen if you're hungry. They're great! You can add onions or cheese."

"I don't think so," Chuck told Patrick.

"Or bacon or sour cream."

"No, thanks," said Betsy.

"Or mushrooms...and...my...fav..." Patrick's voice trailed off, but not because he had taken the hint. 

A rush of cool air swept around Marissa's ankles, and she belatedly realized that the door had opened. "Who's that?" she whispered to Chuck.

"It's Miss Gillespie!" Patrick's gleeful declaration nearly brought up a giggle in Marissa's throat, unsettling everything she'd tucked away just a few seconds ago. What was Kelyn doing here, now?

"Gettin' kinda crowded in here," Chuck muttered.

"She was here a couple of days ago talking to Mr. Hobson. Right before--" Patrick's voice dropped down the scale from happiness to sorrow with a speed that only intensified Marissa's dizziness, then shot back up again. "If you want her to wait I can talk to her." 

"That's okay, Patrick." She got to her feet, heard chairs scraping out as the others did the same.

"Hello? Uh, Miss Clark?"

"Hello Kelyn." Marissa took a couple of steps away from the table. She wasn't sure if she should make introductions, and decided to wait until she knew why the young woman had come. 

"I was hoping you'd be here." In Kelyn's greeting, Marissa could hear--was it apprehension or excitement? It was hard to tell over her own nerves. She pushed her lips into a smile that she hoped was encouraging. Behind her, Patrick was practically breathing down her neck. "Maybe we should talk somewhere else."

"It's all right," Marissa told her, long past caring who heard what. "Why are you here?"

"I found something. After yesterday, at the library, I wanted to help. Like Mr. Snow used to, and Mr. Hobson. I knew that there had to be something I could do." The girl talked like a runaway train. "I really did tell Mr. Hobson everything I knew about that crystal ball thing, but then I thought maybe Dad would know something, something Grandma might have told him, so I called him. He lives in Florida now and he told me to check Grandma's trunks, and there were the coolest things in there! A flapper dress and lots of love letters and a hat and photos and this. It looked so old, and some of the designs look like the bottom of the globe. I know it's a long shot, but--here."

Something was pressed into Marissa's hand. If it was a book, it certainly wasn't made out of paper. The pages thicker, more flexible, their edges worn and uneven. They were bound clumsily with strong thread or twine of some kind. 

"What the heck is that?" Chuck asked.

"I have no idea," Marissa told him dryly. "Kelyn?"

But it was Betsy who was breathing down her neck now, and Betsy who answered. "Oh my God. Oh--oh my _God_. You found this in your _attic_?"

"Yes," Kelyn answered warily. "Who are you?"

"Betsy Cooper, U of C archaeology. May I see it? Please?"

Marissa handed it over gladly, while Kelyn said, "I thought I'd seen you before. I work at the library."

"You don't have anything like this at the Reg," Betsy said, choky and awed. "Not even in rare books." 

"It doesn't look like much," Patrick said doubtfully.

"Hey, Coop?" They were all in a little knot around Betsy, and Josh's voice held a hint of amusement. "You wanna let the rest of us in on it?"

Chuck's hand on her arm kept Marissa steady, for which she was more grateful than she could tell him at the moment. "What exactly is it?" she asked, knowing he would understand.

"It's sort of a book. It has these drawings of plants, and lotsa funny writing. Looks like it was all done by hand." Chuck didn't sound impressed.

"Some of it at the end is Latin," Kelyn added. "I did recognize that much."

"First Gaelic, now Latin? What's wrong with English?" Chuck wanted to know.

"Some of it is English." Betsy's voice was reverent. "But it's Middle English, so it wouldn't make much sense to you anyway, and some of it is Cornish and--oh, Josh, this is amazing. It's--a herbal." Her voice rose to a near-scream. "Oh, my _God_."

"She keeps saying that," Chuck muttered under his breath.

"Betsy?" Marissa wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulders, shake her and force her to explain. "Josh? Could one of you please tell us what's going on?" But they were too wrapped up in the thrill of discovery to answer.

"It's in here, it has to be. I knew I'd seen that verse somewhere."

"Be careful with it!"

"It survived this long in a trunk in an attic, I don't think--oh, Josh, there it is, look."

"What?" Marissa, Chuck, and Kelyn asked in unison.

"Charles?" Aunt Gracie's voice came from over near the kitchen door. "What is it, is everyone all right?"

"I have no idea," Chuck told his aunt, deadpan. Heels tapped toward them, followed by Crumb's heavier footsteps. 

"Marissa, dear, what's happened?" Aunt Gracie touched her arm. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"They weren't ghosts at all, they were real. It's here. There are no words for this, it's just amazing." Betsy was well and truly babbling now, and Marissa couldn't keep track of what she was saying over the worried noises Kelyn was making and the hammering of her own heart.

"Fishman?"

"It's not my fault this time, Crumb, I swear. I had nothing to do with it. It was her."

"What did I do?" Kelyn squeaked.

"You didn't do anything wrong, how could you?" Patrick was trying to reassure Kelyn, but then Crumb cleared his throat. 

"Look, Quinn, don't you have something you need to be doing?"

"Uh--I'm gonna go make a fresh pot of coffee. Emergency coffee," he stammered, and Marissa heard him knock over a chair on his way to the bar.

"Josh, please." Marissa was nearly begging now, knowing that the young archaeologist had some sympathy for their plight.

His voice came in more clearly now, as the others quieted down. "Yeah, sorry. This is--it is the same, right, Bets?"

"Yes, oh, yes."

"It's the verse that's on your scrying glass," Josh told Marissa. "It's in this book. It looks like an herbal, a kind of book they had in the Middle Ages for identifying plants and their medicinal uses. But part way through it changes. The words are written in a different hand, they look like a story, and there's your verse. The plant drawings change to Celtic knotwork, and there's a dragon on the same page as the verse."

"And it's--" Betsy's breath was still ragged. "It's original, right Josh? These materials?"

"Near as I can tell. You'd need lab tests to confirm it."

"Right. Right. I shouldn't just assume, but it is, I know it. Do you understand what this means?" Herhusky voice rose into its upper register again. "We're in a bar in downtown Chicago, looking at-- _holding_ \--an original manuscript! Not just any manuscript. This is the original, the very first, it has to be, of the manuscript of the Monk of St. Goron! Do you believe this?" 

At any other time, Marissa could have appreciated, could have even participated in, the pure thrill of discovery. But now, like Chuck, who was practically vibrating with impatience beside her, all she wanted to know was what it meant to them. To Gary. Unfortunately, she didn't know if there was going to be an answer to that any time soon.

"Gotta admit, though," Betsy mumbled, almost to herself, "it's an ironic name, considering he was excommunicated for writing this." 

"I still don't understand," Kelyn said helplessly. "Marissa, what are they talking about?"

Marissa lifted her shoulders and opened her mouth to admit she didn't know, but Josh spoke first. "Bets, I know you're excited, but these nice people have no idea what's going on." 

Betsy took a deep breath. "This book, like all books of its time, was handmade, but this version is cruder than those we usually find. For all we know, everyone made their own, but probably they didn't. Most people didn't even know how to read. Anyway, this monk from St. Goron's Monastery started writing about the plants, and then in the middle of the book he cuts off and starts a story, a local Cornish legend."

"Cornish?" Crumb asked. "Like those mini-hens they have at fancy restaurants?"

"From Cornwall, south of England. That's where the monastery was. He added this story about a dragon, which includes the verse on your scrying glass. And then--" Marissa could hear the soft slap of turning pages. "--then he added what most scholars think is a real story, about a woman who was burned at the stake for witchcraft, which was unusual in England, but this is down in Cornwall."

"They're right on the coast, so they get ideas from all over the world," Josh filled in.

"Right, right." Betsy was moving around the little group, too excited, Marissa guessed, to stand still. "Plus, you add in mob rule and anything can happen. Of course it did, yhey thought she was a witch. But this monk didn't agree. He stuck in a paragraph--here--about healing plants being part of God's design, about nature being good. The church, prigs that they were, couldn't handle it. They excommunicated him for defending her, even though she'd already been executed. We don't know his name or anything, but there were three or four copies of the book, all in his hand--at least, that's how many are still around. At places like Oxford and Cambridge." Betsy laughed, a gurgle of pure happiness. "And all this time the original was in Chicago. With, I might add, a lot more text than what I've seen in the reproductions of the others. Like this. Josh, take a look."

"She's on the last page," Kelyn told Marissa. 

"That's Latin," Josh said.

"Well, yeah, altar boy. Even you should be able to figure this one out."

"In Memorium, dormiunt in lux perpetua veritas. Rest in the light of eternal truth?"

"Yes, and the rest is from the Bible, from the book of Jeremiah. Wait, I know this one. 'And they have built the high places of Tophet, which is in the valley of the son of Hinnom, to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire; which I commanded them not, neither came it into my heart.'"

There was a moment of silence, then: "I'd say this guy wasn't too happy about what happened," said Chuck. 

"Understatement of the year," Betsy told him. "To make this kind of a statement in private would have been bad enough. To make copies and circulate them? My guess is this guy didn't live long after they kicked him out of the boys' club."

Marissa's knees turned to water; she felt for a chair and sat down abruptly. Was this monk the person who needed Gary's help? 

"Hey, you okay?" Crumb asked. She nodded absently, still trying to focus on what Betsy was saying.

"But Josh, look, the handwriting's different in the first part of the book. It's cruder, and the ink looks different. I think--oh my gosh, someone else must have written the beginning, someone who knew the plants they were talking about and used some of them to make the inks, someone--"

"Someone who ended up accused of witchcraft because she knew how to do that?"

"I would bet money--oh, Josh, this was hers--a _woman_ wrote this! In the 1300s." 

Marissa's stomach lurched, and she clutched an arm over her abdomen. A hand--Aunt Gracie's, she realized gratefully--rested lightly on her shoulder.

"When?" Kelyn asked breathlessly.

"This last line is dated 1351. Right after the plague."

Chuck must have finally caught some kind of hint about what Marissa was thinking, because his next question was laced with his trademark "what-the-heck-are-we-getting-into-this-time" trepidation. "The _Black_ Plague? Rats and fleas and skin exploding into pustules and people dropping dead in the streets? _That_ plague?"

"Charles." Aunt Gracie spoke with her own quiet authority. "That's quite enough."

"A lot of people thought it was the apocalypse," Josh said. "Can you imagine losing half the population of Chicago in a few months? People would go nuts. I can see why they thought she was a witch."

"What--" Marissa's throat was too dry, and she had to swallow before she could finish. "What do you mean?"

Josh sat down in the chair next to her. "No one back then really understood what was happening. They didn't even have a name for it, the way we have AIDS or influenza. They were so afraid, so suspicious, and if this woman could read and write, and if she was a healer, she would have stood out. And nothing she could have done would have stopped the Black Death."

Betsy's voice was quieter now as she drove Josh's point home. "If you go around trying to cure the plague, you're not going to save everyone. Possibly not anyone. So sooner or later someone's going to get angry, start looking for someone to blame." She sighed. "No wonder they burned her at the stake."

"What a sad story," Marissa whispered, thinking, it wasn't the monk. If anyone needed Gary's help, it would have been...oh...oh, no.

Smoke and fire. Salve nos.   
  
"It sounds as if they were a people in great need of help," Aunt Gracie said.

"Hey, don't get so worked up." Crumb sounded bewildered by their reactions. "This was all hundreds of years ago."

Marissa reached out; her fingers made contact with the glass sphere. "It's never too late for a miracle."

Aunt Gracie squeezed her shoulder. "Quite right."

"But--" Chuck sputtered. "But--the plague?"

"Hey, cool, you're studying the plague?" Patrick's voice was loud enough to startle Marissa a second time. "Did you know that 'Ring Around the Rosy' is all about that? There were these red marks people would get on their skin and they'd keep flowers in their pockets to cover up the bad smell and they burned--"

Elbows on the table, Marissa covered her face with both hands.

"Yeah, we know," Josh said quietly, but some command in his voice brought Patrick up short. 

Too late; the song was stuck in her head now. She was too tired for this, too strung out to make sense of anything, let alone the crazy, irrational thoughts that were dancing around her brain.

"Miss Clark? Are you okay?"

"Patrick, could I have a Coke or something?" Kelyn asked, and he hurried off to get it for her, so glad to help that he didn't even know he'd been given the brush off. 

"You're right, you know; this really is a miracle." Betsy's enthusiasm was undiminished, if more contained. "That this thing even survived at all, and ended up here? Amazing." She aimed her voice over Marissa's head, toward Kelyn. "Look, I hardly know you, and I know you have no reason to trust me, but I would really love to study this. Word for word, to get to know it. We could test the paper and the inks, and my books are back at the lab and the lighting's so much better. I promise, we'll take good care of it. I'll treat it like--like--"

"Like a book," Josh said wryly, "and with Betsy, that means she'll treat it like it was her own kid."

"I don't knooow." said Kelyn, trailing out the last word. "Marissa? What do you think?"

Her fingers traced the base that held the crystal ball, around and around. Ring around a rosy...

Things were starting to make the same warped kind of sense she'd had to accept two years ago, when Gary first told her about the paper. This was her only connection to him, and it wasn't going anywhere. But the book was another matter altogether. "Chuck, you can see it, what do you--"

She was interrupted by Crumb's snort. "This is some chain of command." Aunt Gracie "tsk"'d at him.

"Chuck?" Marissa wasn't just asking him about the book. She wanted to know if he thought this was possible, or if she had finally and irrevocably gone around the bend.

"It's not like I can make heads or tails out of it."

Marissa nodded, and Kelyn told Betsy, "Take it, then. I want to know what it all means."

"How soon can you tell us anything?" Chuck asked.

"You think I'll sleep with this around?" Betsy chortled. "How's tomorrow morning? I have at least one book that talks about this manuscript, or what they knew about the copies. I want to call Kate Mathers at Oxford, see what she has to say."

"If there's something in here that can help, Betsy can find it," Josh assured them. "With your okay, I can pull some quick tests in the lab. We'll let you know the second we figure anything out. We'll just have to keep Dr. Hazor out of the lab, or he'll lock it in the safe and call out the Smithsonian."

"No way!" Betsy declared. "This is mine--the discovery anyway--well, you know what I mean."

"Then take it. Please. It was my grandmother's and it's part of our family, but for tonight, if Marissa trusts you--Mr. Hobson trusted me--" Kelyn choked a little. "I want to help his friends."

Betsy's voice was still bright, though she sounded confused by the reference to Gary. "I'm not sure how you think this will help you with your friend, but it's amazing in its own right."

"Yeah, we kinda figured that out," Chuck drawled.

"Here you are!" Patrick was suddenly there again, rattling a paper bag. "A Coke for you, Miss Gillespie, and since it sounds like you guys are gonna be pulling an all-nighter, coffee to go, and food. Mrs. Hobson cooked up a storm this morning. There's gnocchi and meatloaf sandwiches and brownies in the bag. On the house!"

"Wow, first real meal all week," Josh said with a chuckle. "Thanks!"

"Well, somebody's gotta eat it, and we're not open, and I know it's not much, but I want to help, too."

"That's really very kind," Kelyn said solemnly, and Marissa swore she could hear the heat rising in Patrick's cheeks. She did hear him shuffling his feet. For all Patrick's bad timing, he was a sweet kid, and Marissa decided she didn't care if he made Crumb cranky, or Gary pull his hair out. He was staying. Here he was with no idea what was going on, but he jumped to do the first thoughtful thing he could, just because. She liked him.

After all, it wasn't his fault that the "ashes, ashes" refrain reminded her of the taste left in her mouth after her dream.

Quick good-byes were said all around, and promises made to call, to treat Kelyn's book with care. Josh shook Marissa's hand again, squeezing tight. Like Patrick, he wasn't sure what was going on, but he was willing to help. Maybe having faith wasn't such a lonely enterprise after all.

"I suppose I should go, too." Kelyn sighed. 

"You don't have to!" Patrick told her. "I have this leftover ice cream that's going to get freezer burn if we don't make milkshakes soon, and there's still plenty of food in the kitchen. Do you like gnocchi?"

"I love it, but are you sure?"

"She made enough to feed an army. Anybody else?"

"Not right now, Patrick, no." The thought of eating Lois's food nearly made Marissa shake again. She had to control her reactions. Especially if she was right about what had happened to Gary.

The phone rang, and Crumb muttered, "Got it," and stomped over to the bar. Chuck helped Aunt Gracie into the chair next to Marissa's.

"That's really cool, you finding that book like that. What's it got to do with Mr. Hobson?" Patrick asked Kelyn as they walked toward the kitchen.

"You know what, give me a minute. I'll be back, I promise." Marissa heard Kelyn move back toward her table, caught a whiff of the girl's lime shampoo as she sat down in the next chair. "Marissa?" 

A deep breath, and Marissa found her voice. "Thank you. Kelyn, I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

"What happened to him was close enough to being my fault that I had to do something."

"It isn't your fault. If this has anything to do with what happened to Gary, then it must have been meant to happen." 

"That's what I wanted to tell you. All of you, I guess, but you, Marissa, especially. I know you didn't trust me, and it turns out you might have had a good reason, but I just wanted to tell you--all of you--I think I know why this happened to him."

"To Gary," Chuck repeated flatly from across the table.

_So it must be, for so it has been, time out of mind..._

Marissa shook her head, but she couldn't dislodge the wispy trails of thought.

Kelyn sucked in a desperate breath, as if air were going out of style. "Mr. Snow was a good man. And if anything had happened to him, there were people who would have missed him. We would have missed him. But he didn't have friends like you. If there's anything to this, if anything can bring Mr. Hobson back, I know you'll do it. You're Anything-It-Takes Friends." She said it in capital letters, and Marissa, too tired to control her reaction, felt her eyes brim up again. Kelyn squeezed her hand. "Whatever happens, he's lucky to have you guys."

She was gone before Marissa found a voice to thank her. All she wanted to do was put her head down on the table and let go for a minute, just for a minute, to--she didn't know what, and she didn't have the energy left to figure it out.

"Geez," Chuck sighed. "Out of the mouths of librarians."

"She's a very wise young woman," Aunt Gracie said softly. "Marissa, dear, are you all right?"

She didn't answer at first. She could hear them, but they were somewhere, a long way away, and she was tracing the metal lines of the knots at the base of the scrying glass, coming close, so close to understanding, to knowing what she already believed.

_Ashes, ashes..._

Chuck touched her hand. "Marissa? Tell me what's going on. What exactly does this have to do with Gary?"

_We all fall down..._

"Not here," she mumbled, drawing the scrying glass into her lap with both hands. It was unresponsive, cold and lifeless, but that didn't matter. She knew, she was sure now, and it was just a matter of pulling herself together enough to explain it to Chuck, who had taken the hint and was discussing dinner plans with his aunt. Marissa slumped back in her chair, wrung out and boneless.

_I am not resigned._


	19. Chapter 19

_If it were an art to overcome heresy with fire,  
the executioners would be the most learned   
doctors on earth._   
~ Martin Luther

There wasn't much to be said--or done, Gary thought ruefully--after Nessa left. As the last of the light faded from the rectangle of window, he and Morgelyn sat on the floor underneath it, backs against the wall. Waiting for doom to show up at the door.

He shook his head at his own pessimism, but it was hard to avoid it in this place. Darkness and cold seeped out of the ancient stones as night fell, like fog coming in off Lake Michigan. 

"How long--" Morgelyn swallowed, as if it took all her courage just to ask the question. "How long until they come for us?"

"Hopefully not for a long time," he said, then choked on a wry laugh. Would it be better to starve to death down here, rather than facing what was in store for them upstairs? He could feel Morgelyn staring at him, even in the darkness. "I just meant--" he started to explain, but she scooted closer, until their shoulders were touching.

"I know," she said dully. "I would rather brave the rats down here than the ones up there. Ad adjuvantum me festina." 

"That a spell?" Gary kept his tone light, hoping she'd know it was a joke.

"A prayer. 'Make haste to help me, oh Lord.'" Morgelyn folded her hands as if she really were praying. "'Tis from a Mass said in times of pestilence and dire need. It is what I was praying by the waterfall, when you first came."

"You were praying?"

"And I received an answer."

"Not a very good one." He glanced around at the gloom. Trying to keep them both warm, he put his arm around her shoulder. 

"It is not yet over. May God protect us both in what is to come," she whispered. 

There wasn't even a trace of irony in his fervent, "Amen."

The night settled in around them. Time meant nothing. It crawled, it galloped, for all Gary knew, it ran backward. There was no sound except for the birds and insects out on the moor and the occasional rustle in the straw he'd piled in the corner. He tried not to doze off. Wouldn't do for the dragon slayer to fall asleep on the job. Besides, his head still throbbed, and there was something about concussions and not sleeping that he'd learned in a first aid class, or maybe from watching _ER_. But he knew, the next time he opened his eyes in near-total darkness, that it was hours later. Morgelyn was breathing evenly, her head on his shoulder, and his muscles had grown stiff and cold against the stone. 

And heavy footsteps were echoing in the stairwell outside their door.

He knew what they meant. He spared a look back at the window, hoping against hope to see Fergus again. There was no one there, no one to save them but themselves. Beside him, Morgelyn lifted her head and gripped his wrist. "It's the middle of the night," she whispered. "What do they want?"

Grimly refusing to answer, to even let himself think of the possibilities, he got to his feet despite the protest of every muscle in his body. A faint, flickering glow was growing stronger through the tiny window in their door. Morgelyn scrambled up, brushing straw and dirt off her skirt with her good hand. She hooked a tangled mass of dark hair over her ear. "Gary?" The footsteps stopped outside their door, and the torchlight illuminated her huge, worried eyes. 

"Whatever happens," he told her as the bars fell away, "we're sticking together. Got it? They're not going hurt you if I can help it."

The door flew open with a bang. Though she jumped, Morgelyn held his gaze and nodded. "Together."

They both turned to the doorway to face the guards. Gary drew in a breath, resolute, as the two stout shadows descended the stairs. He felt Morgelyn stiffen beside him. "I mean it," he whispered to her, and took half a step ahead.

"Out of the way, mate," growled the smaller guard. "It's her we want." He stomped closer while the taller one held back, lifting a torch that cast foreboding shadows through the room. "Come along, witch. Brother Banning wants to see you."

Chin high, Morgelyn planted her feet and would have stood her ground, but Gary pushed her behind him. "No," he said firmly, widening his stance and bracing for a fight. They'd left the door open. If he and Morgelyn could just get past these two, he thought with a ridiculous surge of hope, they could make a break for it.

"Give over the wench, man," growled the guard. "You know there's no choice here, and it's clear you don't know what to do with her." Morgelyn gasped, and the man on the steps chuckled. 

Shaking his head, Gary backed up against the slow, menacing advance, arms spread wide to keep Morgelyn behind him. No way in hell was he going to let her go anywhere with these two, let alone to Banning. But the guard stepped even closer, shoving his face over Gary's shoulder to leer at Morgelyn. "We all know the witch has to burn. But first we're going to have a bit of fun." 

"No," Morgelyn breathed.

"You heard the lady." Gary took a step forward, trying to force the guard back the other way. "Get away."

"Get on with it, Cam," muttered the guy on the stairs. 

But the guard sidestepped Gary, keeping his sneering gaze on Morgelyn. He was having fun scaring her, Gary realized with a sick jolt. "Oh, we will all hear her soon enough. Won't be no priest to stop your screaming this time, lass."

Intent on his prey, he didn't notice Gary's fist drawing back, or he surely would have moved before it slammed, lightning-quick, into his stomach. He doubled over, cursing. "Damn it, Roy, get down here and help me!"

Shaking out his fist as Cam tried to straighten up, Gary saw the second guard hurriedly fit his torch into a wall bracket at the foot of the stairs. It wasn't going to be a fair fight, but it might be their only chance. He turned to push Morgelyn into the corner, as far away as he could make her go. "Stay back."

"Duck!" 

Spinning back around, he managed to dodge one pass of the end of Roy's staff, but not the second. It caught him in the shoulder and sent him sprawling into the straw pile. Choking on the foul bits that lodged in his mouth and nose, Gary started up again, only to see the wide end of the staff barreling toward his head. He threw up his arm, but the blow didn't come; instead, there was a grunt. 

"Gerroff, wench!" 

Morgelyn had jumped over him and grabbed Roy's arm. Hanging on with one hand, she gave Gary time to get to his feet. Roy elbowed her off with a growl as Cam stood up behind her. Stumbling backward, she fell right into Cam's arms. He pulled her against him in a bear hug, grinning viciously and lifting her off the floor as she tried to twist free. "Let me go!" she shouted, but he only laughed, dragging her with him as he sidled toward the stairs.

Gary saw it happen in bits and flashes, like a film with missing frames, as he tried to stay away from the heavy staff whizzing through the air, his head its sole target. As he ducked again, he threw himself forward, plowing headfirst into Roy's massive gut. Propelled backward, the bigger man staggered into Morgelyn. 

Somehow, she managed to squirm out from between the two guards. She took two steps to Gary, who through pure chance and no forethought grabbed the hand that wasn't hurt. He meant to pull her behind him again, but the guards were both angry now, cursing and moving faster than Gary would have thought possible. Cam made a grab for Morgelyn and caught her left hand in a fierce, squeezing grip. Gary felt it immediately, before he even realized what had happened or what it meant; Morgelyn froze, rigid, her mouth in a round "o", and then went limp. A small whimper of pain escaped as she closed her eyes and sank to her knees. Like a shark smelling blood, Cam squeezed harder, yanking her out of Gary's grasp. Roy ran back and hefted the torch from its bracket. 

Gary didn't think, he couldn't; he just saw Morgelyn crumple over, drawn away from him, dragged along the floor, toward not only the stairs, but the fire. He sprang toward them and threw a right that hit Cam in the jaw. Pain exploded up Gary's arm, and he felt heat near his cheeks. Roy grabbed his vest and tried to pull him away, but Gary, who at least wasn't trying to fight with a torch in his hand, kicked out and connected with a knee. Released, he stumbled a few steps forward. Morgelyn was on her knees, eyes squeezed shut, trying to pry Cam's hand away from her own. Laughing at her ineffectual efforts, he was caught by surprise when Gary hit him from behind, driving a fist into his side. Cam turned and threw an elbow into Gary's gut; Gary tottered back, arms pinwheeling as he tried to maintain his balance. 

Another, sharper cry of pain rang out--Cam still hadn't released Morgelyn, and Gary could see, horrifyingly clear in the torchlight, how he squeezed his ragged fingernails into the blisters on her hand. And then, before he could recover and make another move, Roy thrust the torch between them, so that when Cam hauled Morgelyn up in a merciless jerk, it was too close to her. For a moment Gary saw her face through the flames, her eyes huge, her mouth open as if to scream, and he was sure that it was over--that he had failed her. There seemed to be voices and noises all around them now in the dark and flickering shadows, but his attention was focused only on his friend. He made a move as if to knock the torch loose, ducked under Roy's arm, and plowed his good shoulder into Cam's gut, yanking on his arm, trying to get him to release her. They fell and rolled together once, twice; the hand pulling at Gary's hair was his assurance that at least it wasn't torturing Morgelyn. One more roll and a sharp tug on his hair, and Gary's head connected with a stone wall. He fought to keep from blacking out, to hang on to Cam's tunic, to keep him away from Morgelyn, until it was the only thought he could hold. 

Just hold on, don't let go, _don'tletgo..._

Cam's face danced in and out of the dark spots in Gary's vision; there was another tug on his hair, then shouts that he couldn't understand, and Morgelyn's gasping sobs, but they were all fading away. He felt his strength giving out, his grasp on reality slipping--and then the guard gave another loud grunt and went limp, slumping on top of Gary and blocking out the world. 

When he could breathe again, when he knew he hadn't blacked out, Gary heaved and pushed Cam's limp form away. Too dizzy and breathless to stand, he scanned the room from his knees, but his vision wouldn't clear, and he couldn't figure out what had happened. It didn't make sense, the only thing that made sense was--half-crouched, he turned and scooted across the floor toward the only sound he recognized, shaky breathing and choking sobs, until he found Morgelyn curled into a fetal position, her burned hand cradled against her chest, rocking back and forth. 

"It's me, he's gone, it's okay, I'm sorry, oh God I'm so sorry," he whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She didn't respond. "Morgelyn, please--"

A shadow fell over them; there were booted feet in front of his face. "Get away from her!" Gary snarled, and wrapped his arms around Morgelyn's shoulders, bent over her to try to protect her somehow. 

_...don'tletgodon'tletgodon'tletgo..._

"Back off!"

The feet did back off, but they were replaced by knees, and then a face. "You are not in a position to make threats, my friend, not that any are needed." 

Gary blinked, and the dark spots in front of his eyes went away, replaced by a familiar face, furrowed with concern. "What in the name of all that is holy--Morgelyn?" Fergus reached out a hand. "Is she--?"

_...don'tletgodon'tletgo..._

Gary kept blinking at Fergus, but he stayed where he was and didn't relinquish his hold. He had to be imagining this. It couldn't be real. Everything was swimming in front of him, and he felt stupid and thick, but the one thing he knew was that he wasn't going to let go of Morgelyn, not this time.

Fergus's voice grew sharper when Gary wouldn't, couldn't answer. "For the love of God, what's happened to her?"

"Hush!" hissed another voice. "You will bring the whole village down upon us." A large, meaty hand landed on Gary's shoulder. "Come, lad, let us help you."

Gary shook off Father Ezekiel. But he unfolded himself from his crouched position, pulling Morgelyn with him. "I promised her she wouldn't be alone." He saw, but ignored, the wide-eyed stare Fergus shot at the priest over his head, and scooted around so he could see Morgelyn's face. She was still as a stone in his arms, her eyes squeezed tight in the flickering light that was growing stronger. Or maybe Gary's vision was just clearing. "It's all right," he said, his voice low. "You can open your eyes." She sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, and her eyelashes fluttered. "Fergus is here. I think it's safe now." 

"Not unless you make haste." Father Ezekiel reached down and would have grabbed Morgelyn by the arm, but Gary stopped his hand, rocking back on his own knees. 

"Give her a second."

Morgelyn blinked watery eyes at him and at their rescuers. Gary grasped her elbows and pulled her to her feet, drawing an arm around her shoulders. She wasn't standing very steadily. Or maybe that was him. 

"How?" she finally whispered, biting on her lip and drawing her hand in. "Fergus? What happened?" 

"Good timing," Gary muttered. Cam, the guard he'd been wrestling with, lay over by the wall where Gary had left him. The crumpled mass of red jersey across the room must have been Roy. The light seemed to grow stronger--maybe the moon was rising again--and Gary could see every crag in Father Ezekiel's face.

"Talk later," the priest said gruffly. "There is no time to lose." He turned to Fergus. "You know the way out?"

"Up the stairs, through the kitchen, second door." Fergus reached for Morgelyn's arm. But she turned back, looking at the far wall of the cell, and gasped. Following her stare, Gary finally realized why the light in the room had been growing brighter. Somehow in the fight, the torch had landed in the pile of dirty straw and caught; foul-smelling smoke was already wafting through the chamber. Though stone wouldn't burn, the straw would. 

"We're outta here." Gary started for the stairs, but Morgelyn pulled out of his grip and darted back into the corner. Skirts lifted high, she stomped at the flames.

"Morgelyn, are you mad?" Fergus exclaimed. Gary and Ezekiel hurried after her. 

"We cannot let them burn! We cannot, we cannot..." Over and over, louder, too loud, she repeated it like a wild prayer. Gary reached her first and caught her shoulders; Ezekiel grabbed him roughly and pulled them both back. 

"Let it burn," he growled. 

"No!" Morgelyn was shaking again, and Gary wondered if she was even in her right mind. He wondered if any of them were. 

Firmly taking hold of her elbow, Ezekiel drew her toward the stairs, where Fergus watched the whole thing with his mouth agape. In a low, urgent voice, Ezekiel said, "You must leave this place. You know why those guards were here, and what they were taking you toward. You must leave," he repeated, his face bent close to Morgelyn's. "And it would be better if no one followed."

Gary understood immediately. Morgelyn took a couple more beats. Her good hand flew to her mouth. "But--"

"It is the only way," Fergus insisted. Ezekiel pushed Morgelyn toward the bard.

"Those men," she whispered, turning back and pointing to the unconscious guards. 

"The ones who were trying to kill you?" Fergus snapped. Gary knew what Morgelyn intended, and would have gone back, but Father Ezekiel shoved him toward the steps as well.

"I will get them out. Go." 

Gary met Ezekiel's eyes in the ever-growing light and saw all he needed to see. The priest understood, now; believed them both. With a surge of relief and hope, Gary pulled Morgelyn to the steps, but she twisted back, took a step toward Ezekiel.

"Father--"

"Get her out of here," he insisted gruffly, and jabbed a finger in Fergus's direction. "Listen to that one. Do not stop for anything, and do not look back."

"What about you?" Gary asked. "If they find out you helped us--"

Ezekiel shook his head. "They will never know."

Teary-eyed, Morgelyn stood on tiptoe to kiss Father Ezekiel on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You are no witch, child." He rested his hand on her head for a brief moment, as if he were giving a blessing. "Not an evil one, at any rate. Now leave."

The smoke was filling the room now. Gary met Father Ezekiel's eyes one more time, the nod they shared a thanks, a commitment. He reached for Morgelyn's arm, and this time she didn't resist.

"Hurry!" Fergus urged, and they followed him up the stairs and into the cool night air of the kitchen.  


* * *

  
_We grow accustomed to the Dark  
When Light is put away_  
~ Emily Dickinson

They left the dungeon behind, following Fergus up to the abandoned kitchen. Gary fought the urge to cough smoke out of his lungs and nostrils. The moon was still nearly full; scudding clouds darted over it, causing deep blue shadows to move and shift just as much as those cast by the flames downstairs. Placing what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Morgelyn's shoulder, he kept her between himself and Fergus. Long, shady fingers reached out toward them from inside the abandoned fireplaces and under the broken tables, then retracted. Gary didn't know if the worst danger was behind them, or up ahead, where someone--Banning, Nessa, Malcolm, more guards--might jump out of the shadows to reclaim them. 

Hurrying through the kitchen on feet numb with cold, he could feel Morgelyn's breathing, uneven as his own as they struggled to keep up with Fergus. He didn't need to be told to keep silent; if those goons had been coming to fetch Morgelyn, either they'd been planning to have a little 'fun' on their own, or, more likely since those two didn't seem to have the brains for planning, someone had been waiting to--to--

It didn't matter what they'd been planning. They wouldn't get a chance to do it. What mattered now was that Gary and his friends kept out of their way. 

He was surprised when Fergus headed, not for the crumbling walls and the moor beyond, but back toward the portion of the manor that was still in one piece. Morgelyn twisted back to shoot Gary a scared, confused look and he whispered, "Why don't we go that way?"

"Shh!" The bard didn't even look back, and after a moment's hesitation, they followed him, making the turn for the intact hall. Fergus skidded to a halt in the archway. His eyes frantic even in the shifting moonlight, he shoved them back into the shadows between the stone pillars and peeked around the corner. The heavy protest of a door opening somewhere down the hall stopped Gary's breath. Ice-cold and trembling, Morgelyn's fingers wrapped around his wrist. Unbearable seconds later, the door creaked shut, and Gary let the air out of his lungs. 

When Fergus motioned to them that it was safe to go, Gary took a step forward, but Morgelyn still held his arm captive. He turned and found her rooted to the floor, unmoving in the shadows. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pressed together, and Gary couldn't free his wrist from her steel grip. "Hurry," Fergus whispered, and reached for her other hand, but Gary elbowed him away before he could touch the burned palm. Fergus flashed him a look of pure consternation. "What?"

"They hurt her hand." Gary placed his free hand over the cold fingers gripping his wrist and tugged. "C'mon, Morgelyn, let's go." Blinking, she took a tentative step out of the shadows, then let Gary push her on ahead, after Fergus. 

Light leaked out of the cracks around the door at the end of the hall. Banning had probably been looking for his guards, for his victim. Gary set his jaw in resolute anger. He didn't realize how tightly he was squeezing Morgelyn's shoulder until she squirmed in his grip. When Fergus motioned them to a stop in front of the second door on the left, she stared up at Gary with frightened questions in her eyes, but he only mouthed, "Sorry."

Fergus opened the door only wide enough for the three of them to slip through one at a time, then closed it silently behind them. He let out a relieved sigh and pulled its latching device through, but Gary didn't dare breathe easy yet. They were still in the castle, after all, and if anyone came down the hall, their hiding place would turn into a trap.

The room was shadowed, unlit, and nearly as dark as the dungeon had been. A single window faced away from the moon, and only indigo and grey shadows had any form. They had all become shadows, Gary thought, and then told himself to get a grip. Morgelyn stepped away, venturing farther into the room. "Now what?" Gary hissed to Fergus.

Fergus drew in a deep breath. Even in the dark, Gary could see his shoulders heave. "Now we--"

"I warned you about fire, girl!" 

Gary's skin exploded into a thousand goosebumps at the wasted growl, which came from a dark corner of the room. Morgelyn stumbled back into him with a gasp; her good hand came up to clutch at the arm he wrapped around her shoulders. 

"'Tis only Robert," Fergus hissed. "He knows a way out, just as you said." Gary couldn't answer. He was still trying to find his breath. Morgelyn's head tipped back and rested against his chest for a second; she let out a shaky sigh. He peered into the corner, but all he could see was a huddled shape that looked more like a broken pillar than a human being. 

"Robert?" Morgelyn gently pulled Gary's arm away and stepped toward the shadow. "Did you come to help us?"

"Warned you."

Reaching out, she touched the strange shape, but her hand flew back when he started to cough. "I know," she whispered between hacking coughs. "I know you did. Thank you, Robert."

"Fire'll burn you. Stay clear of it, you hear? Need the dark, not the light. Need the stone, not the wood. Dragon's treasure is gone, no one wants to see any more."

The goosebumps wouldn't leave Gary alone; they crawled up and down his back and his arms, teased at the top of his spine. He sidled back to the door and pressed his ear against it, but he couldn't hear anything. 

"An entire afternoon of those ramblings, trying to figure out what he was saying, waiting for nightfall." At Gary's elbow, Fergus kept his complaints low enough so that only Gary heard. "You may have been better off in the dungeon, my friend." 

"No," Gary told him firmly. "No, we weren't."

Robert's shape peeled out of its shadow, though even then he was only a hulking shape with raggedy edges. He leaned on a thick, twisted branch. It still had leaves on it, and they rasped when he moved closer to Morgelyn. She reached out, and this time she squeezed his arm. "You are very brave to come and help us."

"Not brave. Stupid peddler wouldn't leave me in peace. Just wanted to sleep."

"Stupid?" Fergus asked indignantly. "Who defeated both guards with his bare hands? Who saved--"

The rest of his speech was muffled when Morgelyn whirled on him and smothered him in a tight hug. "Does that answer your question?"

"Quite well." Fergus pulled back, staring into her eyes. "Morgelyn--what they did--what they were going to do--"

Gary saw the way she bit her lip and ducked her head, and figured there would be time to get everyone up to speed when they were safe. "Can we leave this for later? We gotta go." Though the hallway remained silent, he couldn't shake the fear that the guards were about to break up the reunion. 

"What of Father Ezekiel?" Morgelyn looked back to the door. "We cannot leave him, if there is any chance the others will discover that he helped us."

"He said they would not," Fergus insisted.

Gary went back to the door--with what intentions he didn't know--but then his hand froze, hovering just above the latch. He could smell smoke, faint, but recognizable as more than just a fire in a hearth, and in the hallway there were footsteps, closing fast. "Damn."

"Come on, man, help us out!" 

Gary spun on his heel. Fergus was struggling with one of the stone blocks protruding from the wall. Robert had wedged his staff into the space between it and the surrounding stones, and was trying to lever it out, while Fergus grunted and pulled, inching it out to reveal an opening behind. Gary stepped over and, with strength he didn't know he had left, wedged his good shoulder into the opening and pushed against it until the crack was wide enough for a person to slip through. Dizzy from the effort, he leaned against the solid portion of the wall and tried to catch his breath.

"You should not have let him do that. He is hurt," Morgelyn chided Fergus.

"He is bigger than any of us, and he is the one who said--"

"Hush!" Robert's voice cut through the bickering like a knife. Gary blinked away the worst of the dizziness and saw the old man standing, head cocked toward the main door of the room, with one finger on his lips. They all froze as footsteps and voices neared, slowed, then turned for the kitchen--and then all hell broke loose. Even the heavy oak door couldn't keep out shouts of "Fire!" and Father Ezekiel's calls for assistance. Robert's finger fell from his lips; Fergus took the old man by the elbow and guided him to the opening they'd created in the wall. 

"Gary is right, we need to leave now," the bard whispered. "Show the way."

Gary couldn't see anything beyond the opening, just worse-than-pitch black. Darkness seemed to flow out and pool around their ankles. 

"Sir Eglamore's descendants were smugglers," Fergus explained with a smirk that Gary could hear, if not see. "This leads all the way to the ocean."

"So, we've got a castle, a dungeon, and a secret passage," Gary muttered, pushing himself away from the wall. "You know, this is how clichés get started in the first place."

"Quickly! No more fire, hurry." Robert kept muttering to himself as he led the way through the opening. When Gary followed Morgelyn through, he felt a rush of damp air and a dizzying sense of space opening up in front of him. Robert swung his stick around, forcing them to stay close to the door. "Wait, stairs."

How were they supposed to negotiate stairs in near-darkness? Slick stairs, Gary realized, as the damp stones sent a chill up through the soles of his feet. 

"Gary!" Fergus hissed in his ear. "Help me move the stone back!"

"No!" Morgelyn's skirt whipped against Gary's legs when she spun around. "I told you, Fergus, he is in no state to be moving boulders."

"And what state will he be in when they break through that door and follow us down here? What state will you be in if they do?" 

As if to punctuate the peddler's argument, muffled pounding started up in the room they'd just left. They were trying to break the door down, Gary thought wildly, and again, a surge of fear and desperation leant him strength. The stone must have been on some kind of track or groove, because once their efforts overcame its inertia, it slid back into place and sealed them all in complete darkness.

Even through the stone, the sound of the door to the room shattering open could be heard. How long before whoever was out there discovered their secret? They were all standing there, holding their breath, and he couldn't help but think it would be better if they moved. He shuffled his feet nervously, not sure now big the landing was, or where the walls were. 

"Seven steps. Six steps, five." growled Robert. Couldn't the guy make up his mind? Then Gary realized that he was counting as he made his way down the stairs. "Come on, girl!"

At his side, Morgelyn gave a gasp and was gone. Gary reached for her, but his hand met only air, and then, as he waved it around, a wall. He stuck his foot out and found the steps; could feel Fergus's breath on his neck as they made their way down.

The stairs were rough stone, and the walls loomed close around them, the tunnel not much wider than Gary's shoulders. Voices and curses came through the stone, fading as they reached the last stair. It was higher than the others, and Gary stumbled off it and into Morgelyn, grabbing her skirt when he reached out to break his fall. Fergus bumped into them both from behind.

"Oh--oh no--Gary?" Morgelyn's voice drifted toward him in the darkness and her hand latched onto his sleeve, pulling him up.

"Okay, I'm okay." 

"Warn me the next time you do that," Fergus grumbled.

"Keep going!" Robert's disembodied voice insisted. "Cannot stop here, too many dragons too close behind." 

After some fumbling, Gary let go of Morgelyn's skirt and got a hand on her shoulder instead, pushing her wild, frizzy hair out of the way. They all fell silent, shuffling through the inky black. The muffled voices in the room above faded away to nothing, and the stone door never moved. Finally, after what might have been a few yards or a few blocks--Gary couldn't tell in his disoriented state--they stopped. 

"Is everyone here?" Fergus tugged at the back of Gary's vest, looking for a handhold. In the end, he just grabbed a handful of the leather, pulling it tight around Gary's bruised midsection. "Morgelyn? Robert?"

"Robert is just ahead of me." Morgelyn's shoulder drooped under Gary's hand, her own exhaustion as evident as his. "Are we really away? They will not find us here, will they?" 

No one answered.

"Turn should be here. Wait." Robert's muttering wandered off ahead of them.

Gary's only clue as to where they were was the way their whispers echoed off the walls of the passageway, or maybe it was a cave by now. The air was cooler, and he could hear dripping somewhere up ahead. He had a feeling that the ceiling was close to his head, but maybe that was just paranoia. After all, his skull had been bumped enough in the past few days. 

"All right, turn up here. Hurry, now."

"Where are we going?" Gary asked Fergus.

"Away. And forward."

They moved through the darkness as a human chain, silent and cold. Gary had dozens of questions, but none of them needed answering right now more than one: how long until they were safe?   
Maybe two: was he going to make it until then? He had aches on top of aches, new on top of old. He didn't know if his shoulder would ever work properly again; it was growing stiff, and moving his arm hurt, but the spot where Fergus tugged at his side hurt more. The air was so damp that his clothes clung to him after only a few minutes. Darkness presented all kinds of obstacles that he would have stepped over without even thinking about if he could see: dips in the surface, little puddles of water, outcroppings from the wall, and tiny, sharp stones that felt like knives in the soles of his feet. He kept waiting for his eyes to adjust, like they had in the woods and on the moor, but it didn't happen. 

Every once in a while there would be a rush of new, chill air from his right or his left, and a sense of expanded space, a change in the way their footfalls echoed. Sometimes they would pause at these junctures and turn when they started off again. Gary knew he should have been keeping track, just in case, but it became impossible in his befuddled state. When he asked, once, how their guide knew where to go, Robert muttered, "Ocean, boy. Can't you smell it? Dragon slayer's nose must be full o' smoke." 

But he really couldn't smell anything like the salt water brisk of the seashore. Gary didn't know if he would have trusted Robert, if he hadn't experienced for himself just how uncanny Marissa's sense of direction could be. Of course, there was also the fact that he was too exhausted to do anything but trust and follow through the absolute night of the caves. 

This was the world Marissa walked through every day, he reminded himself, and was impressed anew at her ability to maneuver in it. Since smelling his way through it was beyond Gary, he focused on listening. Listening to drips, to scuttlings too small to be human, to Robert's muffled cautions and coughs. Listening to Fergus's nervous sighs when Gary didn't move quickly enough. And listening to Morgelyn's little gasps, the ones she tried to swallow as they fumbled along. 

Between the villagers, Banning, and then the guards, she'd taken as much physical abuse as Gary, and her spirit had been tested until there wasn't much left. She didn't have a lot of experience, Gary suspected, with being a target. She'd trusted her neighbors, trusted the way her world worked, and it had all turned inside out in a couple of days. Gary understood that all too well.

He was reluctant to admit, even to himself, how much his worlds had started to merge and layer right in front of his eyes back there in the dungeon, just before Fergus and Father Ezekiel had come. Because, for him, it had seemed like it was both of them. Not just Morgelyn, but Marissa, too--hurt and terrified and bullied and face to face with real evil. Maybe he had, as Fergus had suggested, taken one too many blows to the head. All he'd known, at the moment he'd seen her curled on the floor like that, with nowhere to hide from the fire and their tormentors, was that everything he knew about friendship was there, in that place of horrors.

He was grateful for the reassurance of her wool-clad shoulder under his hand while his own inner voice echoed: _don'tletgodon'tletgo..._

Not this time, not for anything. But he could feel Morgelyn stumbling, even when the way was smooth, and he himself had to focus on one step at a time, pushing past exhaustion and everything that hurt. Despite his best efforts to stay alert, the relief at being able to move, at being free and alive, was pulling the adrenaline from Gary's system far too quickly. Finally he turned to Fergus, even thought it didn't help him see the man any better. "Where--" No, wait, that wouldn't help. Gary didn't know where anything was to begin with. "How much further?"

"I am not certain." Fergus gave Gary a little shove in the back, urging him to keep up with the others, but Gary tripped on a loose rock and nearly fell. He could hear Robert and Morgelyn stop as he grunted; felt Fergus catch him and pull him back to his feet, but he was so dizzy with exhaustion and darkness and sheer disorientation that he wished the other man would have let him fall. At least once he was down, he wouldn't have to go any farther. 

"Fergus," he whispered, stabilizing himself with one hand against the wall, "we can't go on stumbling around in the dark. We need--" Doctors, he thought. A hospital. A place where people didn't want to hurt each other. 

"Rest without fear," said Morgelyn, somehow finding them in the darkness. She slid her arm through his. 

"Yeah," he said, "that too." An overwhelming whiff of stench announced Robert's return.

"Keep going, keep going. Do you want the dragons to find you?"

Morgelyn leaned her head against Gary's arm for a moment, then released it and went after Robert. 

"Or," Fergus said with mock cheerfulness, "we could just keep stumbling around in the dark forever."

Gary sighed. "I guess it beats the dungeon."  


* * *

  
_"It is a long distance," Admael said, "both in time and space."  
"It is a risk," Adnarel agreed, "but one I think we must take...The   
pattern is not set. It is fluid, and constantly changing."  
"But it will be worked out in beauty in the end."_  
~ Madeleine L'Engle

There had been too much information dumped on him to digest all at once. Chuck was only too happy to volunteer to take Aunt Gracie home before Lois and Bernie showed up again, before Crumb scowled a new hole in his forehead, and before he imploded from sheer overload. 

Marissa must have felt the same way, because she jumped at the chance to go with him. After they dropped Aunt Gracie off at her home, and after a whispered conversation between the two women on Gracie's front door stoop that made Chuck feel like a stranger all over again, they made the drive back to Marissa's place in silence. Even with the car windows rolled down the air was still and heavy, as if the city was holding its breath. It sat on Chuck's chest like a weight, stifling his ability to think and speak. 

But he wanted to know what was going on, or at least what Marissa thought was going on, and so he broke the silence as he trailed her and Spike into the living room. He stopped to turn on the lamp on the end table, then said, "Okay, spill."

At first, a tiny hitch of her shoulders as she dropped onto the couch was the only indication that Marissa had heard. She pulled the crystal ball out of her bag and held it on her lap, looking like a spruced-up nineties version of a gypsy fortune teller. Lost somewhere in her own thoughts, she entwined her fingers around the globe. Shifting from one foot to the other, Chuck cleared his throat, and she turned her face toward him, slow in the stiff air. "Spill?"

Chuck shuffled over to the chintz chair and perched on its arm. "I know you're cooking up something, sister, and it ain't gnocchi and cookies. Wanna tell me what that was all about, with Mr. and Mrs. Indiana Jones and the book?"

"You don't know?"

He felt the muscles between his shoulder blades tense--tense, hell. He was going to explode if something didn't happen soon. "I have an idea, but I want to hear it from you." Marissa ducked her head again, as if she couldn't bring herself to come right out and say it. Given what he suspected, he didn't blame her in the least. "Look, it's great that you think all this is somehow going to help Gary." Still trying to reconcile Marissa's faith, and what he really wanted to believe, with what everyone else seemed to think, he nearly choked on that last bit. "But all that talk about plagues and burning people at the stake has me spooked."

Marissa whispered, "Me too." Then, with more conviction, "What if he's there?"

He'd suspected--no, he'd known--what she believed. But hearing it out loud made his arms break out in goosebumps. Planting a foot on the floor to keep himself from tumbling off the arm of the chair, he held out his hand, palm forward, as if she could see it. "Do you know what you're saying?"

Nodding, she set her jaw in a serious line. Chuck wished someone would buckle him in, because he had a feeling this roller coaster was about to careen out of control. "Do you remember last spring, when Gary was knocked on the head trying to stop the construction accident?" Her words were deliberate, her tone cautious, as if she were setting china plates on a glass table. "Did he ever tell you what happened?"

Chuck sighed. Of all Gary's exploits, that had been one of the weirdest, and he'd been genuinely worried about Gary's sanity afterward. Kind of like he was worried about Marissa's now. "He said something about a dream he had while he was conked out."

"He didn't think it was a dream." 

Despite the heavy air, a chill chased up his spine. "A dream," he insisted, "about a wagon driver, and a bar, and a singer and her brother."

"And the Chicago Fire."

"Gary didn't stop the Chicago Fire."

"No. But he helped save Jesse Mayfield's ancestors from it." 

Damn. He'd hoped it had all been a dream. His, if not Gary's. "He was conked on the head, Marissa," he countered, even though he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. "Then he started spouting some weird theory about physics and time travel."

"Time." Marissa lifted the ball, and the way she traced her fingers around the knots in the base gave him the creeps. 

"You know, that's very New Age, very trendy," he told her. "Very Riverdance."

Her shoulders sagged; she flashed him an exasperated look. Even Spike, curled at her feet, managed to look disgusted. "Chuck, please don't play this off as a joke."

"I can't help it! I get spooked, I fall back on pop culture. And this is very damn spooky."

"It's not New Agey, because it's not new. It's old, it's from another time." She touched a spot where two lines of silver intersected. "Time is out of joint."

Chuck jumped up and stalked over to the window, hauling it open in a desperate attempt to get some air. "Oh cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right? Hey, I took theater, ya know," he added when her look turned startled. "Not all my culture is pop. But just 'cause Shakespeare wrote it, doesn't mean that Gary's in the middle of whatever those archaeologists study." Hands curled into fists on the sill, he leaned back against the window and set the rocker next to him in motion with his foot. He wasn't sure that what Marissa was implying would be better than Gary being at the bottom of the lake, but there was no way he was going to say that.

She set the globe on the coffee table and got to her feet, too, suddenly agitated and pacing--Marissa, pacing--just from the end of the sofa to the front window and back, but still spooky, again. She folded her arms over her chest, as if she wanted to huddle into her sweater and never come out. 

"But it does mean--it has to," she insisted. "He's there. He's there where that book was written, with those people in the story. Those are his initials on that thing." She waved a hand over her shoulder at the crystal ball she'd left on the coffee table. 

"Don't have to be."

"They _are_. The story said they needed a dragon slayer, someone who could help them. That's what Gary is. They blamed this woman for the plague, or something like it, but wasn't her fault, she just wanted to help."

"But Marissa, this person died six centuries ago. It's sad, but the world went on."

"Do you think that would matter to Gary?"

Running a hand over his cheeks and chin didn't help him wake up. "Yeah, okay, it would. But he doesn't speak their language, and what he knows about history--well, it's more than what I know, but you could still probably fit it all in a picture book. He used to sleep through Western Civ. And how'd he get there in the first place?"

"I don't know." Marissa stopped a few feet from Chuck, twisting her fingers together as she spoke. "I guess it's magic."

Chuck pushed himself off the window sill, throwing his hands out wide. "Just like that? Magic?"

"That's what the paper is." 

A delivery truck whooshed by outside, and they listened to the sound while Chuck tried to decide how to counter that one. He hadn't meant to play devil's advocate, but someone around here had to keep them from going completely nuts. "Look, I can--or I used to be able to--hold the paper, when Gar would let me near it. I could see it and touch it and read it. It came with some kind of instructions."

"It doesn't tell Gary how to fix the problems."

"It's better than this! Even if I believe this new theory of yours, what are we supposed to do?"

"There has to be a way to bring him home. Don't you see the danger he's in?" She wrapped her arms around herself. "There has to be a--a--"

"A reason for all this?" He aimed for sarcasm, but it didn't quite come out that way. How was he supposed to maintain his cool exterior when his own voice was betraying him?

Her lips twisted into a sad little smile. "Yes."

"Let's say this is even possible. You're talking plague here. Bubonic plague." It was his turn to pace, as vague memories of drawings from history books surfaced: rats, fleas, and grinning, dancing skeletons. "Didn't people just fall over dead in the streets from that? Gary's not a doctor. Or say it's the witch. What if she puts the whammy on him?" He waved his arms, just getting good and warmed up, but Marissa shook her head.

"There weren't witches. They were just women who knew more than they were supposed to. He's trying to help one of them."

"And how's he supposed to do that? What's he gonna do, throw himself in front of an angry mob? Wave his newspaper around and try to stop them from torching her? You know, if they burned a woman at the stake for reading and writing and knowing which plants cured warts, what are they going to do to Gar?"

She dropped into her rocker, both hands covering her face. "What have they already done?" Spike got up and padded over to the rocker, nudging her knee with his nose. Even from across the room, Chuck could see her shoulders shaking. 

"I'm sorry." He started toward her, but something held him back, and he ended up perched on the back of the sofa. 

She rubbed both palms across her cheeks, and then dropped her hands into her lap. "You're right. That dream I had--Gary--he's there, but he's in trouble. We have to find a way to get him back."

Chuck sighed. "Like I told you earlier, there's nothing I'd rather do than go to the G-man's rescue. But how?"

Determination returning to her expression, she set the rocker in motion. "Fight fire with fire, I guess."

"What?" He gripped the back of the sofa to keep himself from sliding off at the mental image of an angry, torch-wielding mob. "I'm not tying anybody to the stake!"

She flashed him a look of pure disgust. "That's not what I meant at all. Magic. We need to find a way to use it, too."

The world righted itself a little. "Oh. Well, great. I'll just have my secretary call David Copperfield."

She shook her head. "It's all magic, Chuck. It's been about magic and miracles since Gary first got the paper." 

He pushed off the sofa, took a step closer to the rocker. "I'm trying, here, I really am, it's just--"

The phone shrilled out in the foyer, and Marissa shot to her feet, hurrying past him to answer it. She held her hands out in front of her, but didn't seem to need a cane or a dog to get around her own house. Chuck wandered over to the stuffed armchair and slumped into it, wishing he could understand just what it was he'd agreed to believe. He'd heard it, she'd said it right out loud, and he still was having trouble accepting it. What the heck was wrong with him? All that sunshine out in LA must have fried his brains.

Another truck rushed by, and in the silence that followed, Marissa's voice was suddenly louder, less agitated than when she'd been speaking to him, but a lot more confused. "Yes...no, it was a woman, that's what you said. Betsy said so, too...No, no one else, why?" An interminable pause, then: "But what about--okay. All right. Yes, we'll be here. Please call as soon as you know anything. Thank you, Josh. 'Bye."

She didn't so much walk back into the room as drift, her expression, for once, unreadable. Chuck's ribs constricted painfully, and the air in the room went from heavy to smothering. "Marissa? What's wrong?" Because something had to be wrong, didn't it? It wasn't as if they could get good news for a change.

She sat down on the couch, pulled the quilt off the back and into her lap, and scrunched whole handfuls of it until riots of color oozed out between her fingers. "Josh couldn't remember what he'd told us earlier, and he wanted to know if it had changed."

"It?" Chuck threw a glance at the crystal ball, but it was still where she'd left it on the coffee table, innocuous and still.

"The story. In the book." Her words, like the quilt she clutched, tightened and twisted. "They're still checking with their other sources, and the copies, but..." Marissa trailed away, lost again, leaving Chuck with his heart in his throat.

"But what? You're scaring me."

She let go of the quilt, fingers splayed just above her lap. "Don't think, just tell me exactly what you remember. What was the story at the end of the book, the true one, about?"

He didn't have to think. He remembered just fine. "A woman. She got burned at the stake for being a witch." It was hardly a trick question.

"Alone?"

"Yeah, alone."

Marissa shook her head. Her hands traced the geometric patterns of the quilt over and over, faster and faster, until he had to force himself to look away. "That's what I thought, what we all thought, but something's changed. Josh says the book says there was a man kil--executed with her." 

No. Chuck thought. Nonononono...

"And it's not just Kelyn's original. The photos they found of the copies, the people they talked to in England, they all say the same thing. That's the way they think it's always been. Josh wasn't sure, he's trying to make sense of it, but he sounded like he didn't even trust his own memories."

"I know what I remember. Betsy Cooper didn't say anything about a man."

She nodded. "Don't you see? He's the one who changed it. That man who's in the story now, it's--" Covering her mouth with her hands, she broke off.

Chuck really, really, really didn't want to say it. He didn't even want to think it. 

But he had to.

"It's Gary."


	20. Chapter 20

_Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men  
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart  
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?_  
~ Percy B. Shelley

They wove their way through the darkness for what felt like forever. Gary tried to keep his mind off his discomfort and exhaustion by making a list of what he'd do when he got home. Take a hot shower. Shave with a real razor and foam. Brush his teeth. More than once. Put on jeans and a clean, soft flannel shirt. Sleep on a real mattress. Have a steak and a baked potato.

That was a mistake. He couldn't think about food, not when the last time he'd eaten was well over twenty-four hours ago. He'd been a little preoccupied since then, and even now his stomach's protest at the thought of food was only half as ferocious as it should have been. Even more alluring was the thought of sleep. On his own bed, his own clean sheets, after a steak dinner. If he ever saw steak again. If he ever got home again. 

Before that could happen, he had to make sure these people were going to be okay. And get the Dragon's Eye back from Father Ezekiel. How was that supposed to happen?

It seemed safe to talk now; surely if anyone was following they would have caught up. "How'd you convince Father Ezekiel to help us?" Gary asked Fergus over his shoulder. 

"You did that, my friend. He came and found me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Am I speaking Arabic?" Fergus shoved Gary to catch up with Robert. 

"But--but he didn't--" Gary stuttered as he nearly plowed into Morgelyn. "I tried to tell him, and he didn't come for hours. She was hurt, and he knew it, and he didn't come."

"He could not march in there and take you out through the front door in broad daylight," Fergus snapped. "There were people everywhere, including your dear Lady Nessa." 

Gary felt Morgelyn shiver. "She's not my anything," he muttered. "And yeah, I know she was there. She came to see us."

"What did she want?"

"Doesn't matter." Gary's tired voice bounced off the stone. The rest of his explanation was cut off by the coughing fit that overtook Robert. 

They all stopped; Gary could hear Morgelyn shuffle over to the old man, murmuring questions, but he spat out, "Leave me be. Wait here," and took his hacking farther down the tunnel.

Fergus didn't say anything for a moment, but Gary didn't have the energy to explain what Nessa had offered. "In any case," Fergus finally continued, "it took me much of the day to find Robert, and to make him understand. Ezekiel came upon us in the woods--he found us, when I had given up hope of ever getting his assistance. What you said to him must have made a difference. He said you convinced him that it didn't matter what Morgelyn had done."

"I've done nothing!" Her protest was weary, the words worn out from repetition against stone walls of doubt. 

"I know that, I truly do," Fergus assured her. "But Father Ezekiel was not so sure at first. It took your dragon slayer to remove the blinders from his eyes." 

Even though no one else would see it, Gary shook his head. All he'd done was panic, big time, and try to get a familiar face to help. "I didn't think he believed me."

"You must have been very convincing nonetheless. Ezekiel told me that after they sent you both back to the dungeon, he had to stay and talk to Banning and Malcolm long enough to make sure that they weren't going to resume their--their--"

"Torment," Morgelyn whispered.

"--any time soon," Fergus finished after a pause pregnant with anger and frustration that Gary understood completely. "He told them that he had uncovered new rumors and he needed time to talk to the townspeople. He suspected another source of all this evil."

"Surely he did not blame Gary."

"Wouldn't matter." Gary blinked hard and wished for some light, any light. Maybe a conversation wasn't such a good idea. Listening to the disembodied voices, including his own, swirl and dart through the darkness made him feel as if he were floating, the way he did when he took too much over the counter cold medicine. Backing up until he felt uneven rock at his back, he leaned against the wall of the cave for support.

"I believe he had quite a time trying to tell them something that wouldn't cast suspicion on some other soul," Fergus murmured. "Finally they said they would get it out of one of you somehow. There was nothing more he could have done to stop them. So he came and found me, which was not easy to do, since I was trying to find Robert, and he was hiding in the woods."

"I told you he would not blame you, Gary," Morgelyn said.

"I still have no idea why he believed me, though."

"I wager not even Father Ezekiel himself is sure of that. He thinks you are touched," Fergus declared with a hint of manic glee.

Gary snorted. "Tell him to get in line."

"But he also thinks you have Morgelyn's best interests at heart, and that if any magic has been done, it is more than outweighed by the evil that was done to correct it. And when you told him to take your belongings, when you did not try to lie about it, but instead did everything you could to convince him to stop them from hurting Morgelyn. That was what won him over, if you ask me. He thinks you are mad, but he respects you."

"He trusts you," Morgelyn added. "That explains everything."

It didn't explain where they were going or what was supposed to happen next, but before Gary could ask, Robert's coughs and mutterings neared again, and resolved themselves into words Gary could understand. "Not much farther." 

He could hear a faint, throbbing rhythm, and guessed they were somewhere near the coast. Blinking as they all moved toward the sound, Gary realized that there was a lifting of the dark up ahead, a grey light, faint but different from the utter black around them. He'd been in the dark so long, he wasn't sure if it was real or just his exhausted imagination, until, around one more corner, the light grew pearly, moonlight streaming through a crack in the cave wall. It was enough to show the grey-washed faces of the people around him, the way Fergus flashed him a wry grin and Morgelyn rubbed at her eyes. Robert nodded as if in answer to an inner voice. "Yes. Soon you rest--" but was interrupted by his own coughing fit.

"Robert? Are you sick again? Here, let me help." Morgelyn continued speaking in a low, soothing voice, placing her hand on the old man's forehead as he bent over and tried to draw regular breaths. Gary pulled Fergus out of earshot, toward the crack in the rocks, no wider than his hand, that was letting in the light. 

"We can't go anywhere, far or not." Gary watched Morgelyn shake her head as Robert spoke to her. She swiped at her eyes, then staggered backward. Robert caught her, somehow.

"How does he do that?" Fergus muttered.

"'Tis nothing," Morgelyn murmured in a weary, choked voice that didn't convince any of them.

"Sit you down." The gentleness in Robert's wasted voice gave Gary a hint of what the man must have been like a few years ago. 

"I can keep going, but Robert, you are ill. We must--"

"Sit you down, child," Robert repeated, and when he would have pushed her to the floor right there, Gary stepped in, took her elbow, and sat her on a flattish outcropping of the cave wall, one that wasn't completely wet. 

"I can go on," she protested.

"I can't." He lowered himself gingerly to the floor next to her perch. "I don't know if anyone's behind us, but at this point, I'm willing to find out, if it means I can rest for a couple of minutes."

"He is sick again." Morgelyn's whisper came through clenched teeth; she leaned her head against the stone wall behind her. "What are we going to do? I have nothing here that will help him." She let out a short breath of a laugh. "I have nothing at all."

"We'll think of something," Gary muttered. 

"But what about our rendezvous?" Fergus was asking Robert. Even in the near-darkness, Gary could see, or maybe he was imagining, since he knew them so well, the deep furrows on Fergus's face. "We are already late. 'Tis long past moonrise."

"Which is why," said a new voice that made them all jump, "I came to meet you."

Gary looked up in alarm, but couldn't find the will to stand, or to do anything more than stare open-mouthed at the apparition who stood before them in the moonlight, holding a small rushlight torch. 

Morgelyn whispered, "Declan? What are you--how--"

The priest's nephew flashed the same happy grin that Gary had seen on his face at the festival two days before. "My uncle sent me to meet you. 'Tis a very exciting adventure!"

Behind the lanky form, Fergus snorted, but Gary didn't, couldn't, find it funny. Morgelyn winced and shook her head. "No, Declan, it is not exciting." Her voice cracked around the words and echoed off the walls. "It is a horror."

"Horror," Robert intoned behind them. "Horror and fire, dragons and smoke."

Declan's expression melted into one of dumbfounded shock. With a helpless glance at Gary, he knelt before Morgelyn and whispered, "My lady, they told me you had been ill-used, but I did not know how badly." He leaned forward, peering closely at her. Morgelyn flinched away from the torch with a soft, wordless exclamation that spurred Gary into action. He jumped to his feet, grabbed Declan by the cowl of his robes, and dragged the younger man a few steps back. 

"I meant no harm, I assure you!" Declan turned wide, frightened eyes to Gary. 

"I know." Gary's reply was terse, delivered as he released the young monk and moved closer to his friend. "Morgelyn, it's okay," he said, taking hold of her shoulders. She shook her head, then nodded, her eyes meeting Gary's in blank confusion. "It's just Declan," he told her. "I think he's here to help."

"I am. I promise I meant no harm."

"Then keep that away," Gary told him firmly, waving a hand in the direction of the torch. "Far away." 

"Of course, of course, whatever you say." Declan tossed the torch onto the stone floor of the cave and stomped it out before approaching Morgelyn again, casting a wary glance at Gary, who stepped aside, but only a foot or so. Declan pulled a makeshift kind of backpack, a bundle of cloth tied with twine, off his shoulder and held it out to Morgelyn. "A peace offering, m'lady."

She didn't look up. "Please don't call me that." Declan undid the twine and placed the bundle in Morgelyn's lap. Her eyes widened. "My cloak! How did you find it?"

"My uncle sent me for it, along with--oh, have a care!"

Working one-handed, Morgelyn unfolded the cloak, and something hard fell out onto the damp floor of the cave, rolling toward the far wall. Fergus stooped down and picked up the small jar, like the ones that lined the shelves of Morgelyn's cottage. He held it toward the light. "Is this food?" he asked hopefully.

"No, a salve for burns. My uncle insisted I find it and bring it, though he would not tell me why. What is amiss?" Declan asked, startled again, for Morgelyn was crying, quiet tears running unchecked down her cheeks. 

Gary snatched the jar from the bard's hand, pried off the cork lid, and held it out to Morgelyn. "Will this help the burns on your hand?"

Biting her lip, she nodded. "Hold it for me, and I will put it on." She reached toward the jar, scooping goop out of it with two fingers and touching them tentatively to the palm of her left hand. This close, Gary could see more tears spring up in her eyes. "I need cloth for a bandage."

A ripping sound in Gary's ear made him jump and turn. Fergus was tearing off the bottom of his shirt, all the way around. "Let me," he said, and elbowed past Gary. He started wrapping the cloth loosely around her hand. 

"There is a safer place up ahead," Declan said. "Drier, and not so dark. I brought food, and a few other things, as my uncle instructed..." He trailed off, looking utterly lost. "How can they think she is a witch?"

Gary shook his head. "I don't know if they really believe it, or if they're just using it as an excuse for a lot of other things." 

Fergus was sitting next to Morgelyn on the low stone, one arm around her shoulders. She bent forward, her unbandaged hand over her eyes. 

"Hey." Gar knelt and touched her arm; Morgelyn moved her hand away, rubbing tears off her cheeks.

"I cannot--I cannot stop."

"That's because you know it's safe. Can you make it a little farther?"

Morgelyn sniffed. Clutching Gary's sleeve, she got to her feet. "Of course I can." Fergus scooped her cloak up from the cave floor and draped it over her shoulders, then helped her with the pin. "Thank you. I am not an invalid," she added when all three men tried to take her arm at once. "I can walk on my own."

"Almost there," Robert muttered. "Almost there."  


* * *

  
_I will connive no more  
With that which hopes and plans that I shall not survive:  
Let the tide keep its distance;  
Or advance, and be split for a moment   
By a thing very small but all resistance;  
Then do its own chore._  
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

About fifteen minutes later they made another turn and the cave opened up, not the huge arch of a movie cave, but a jagged opening that was as high as Gary's shoulders and wide enough for a couple people to fit through at once. The rock floor on which they stood protruded out a few feet, and then, as much as he could tell in the blue-washed light, ended abruptly. What lay beyond--or below, because the water sounded more like it had that first night on the cliffs than it did up close on the beach--Gary couldn't see. 

"You must be careful about walking out there. The floor drops off, as you can see. But otherwise, you will be safe. None shall find you, unless they know some other way in. I doubt that many do." Declan's eyes were round as quarters, and his blonde hair glowed in the moonlight. "I grew up in Gwenyllan, and played in some of these cliffs, but I had to let Robert lead me to this one from an opening in a hillside near the river."

"Bunch of stumbling girls cannot find anything on their own. Only one who knows what she does is the girl." They were all standing in a rough semi-circle, as near to the opening and the moonlight as seemed safe. Robert reached over and patted Morgelyn's shoulder. "End of the caves here. Peddler knows, he knows what to do next. Wait until day, when he can follow his nose." The old man coughed, sounding weaker than he had before, and stepped toward the tunnel they'd just left. "Leave you now."

"No, Robert." Morgelyn reached for his sleeve and caught a strip of torn fabric that came away in her hand. "Stay with us."

Robert sidestepped her reach before she could grab for him again. In the moonlight, Gary thought, he looked like a raggedy ghost. "Must go," he growled. "Safe journey." One crooked finger extended from the tattered robes and pointed straight at Fergus--how, Gary had no idea. "You promised," he intoned.

He moved back into the tunnel. Morgelyn stared, her mouth half-open. Gary started after the old man, but Fergus caught his arm from behind and, despite his lesser size, pulled Gary around. 

"Let him go." Fergus's gaze swiveled from Gary to Morgelyn. "This is what he wanted."

"He is all alone, and ill." Morgelyn's voice was choked; Gary was afraid she might start crying again. Not that he blamed her one bit. 

"This is what he wanted, Morgelyn," Fergus repeated. "He is tired. It has been a long day for him. For all of us." 

"He is more than tired." Morgelyn raised her voice, and it echoed off the close, damp walls. "Can you not see? If we do not help him, he will die."

She started for the tunnel, but Fergus jumped in front of her and caught her by the shoulders. "He made me promise to let him go. There is nothing more you can do for him."

Anger flashed across Morgelyn's face--Gary could see her eyes narrow even in the dim light--and she pushed Fergus away. With both hands.

And then doubled over, biting her lip, her bandaged hand clutched to her stomach. 

"Oh, dear," Declan murmured. 

Aching with sympathy, with empathy, Gary put a hand on Morgelyn's back. 

"I wanted to help him," she whispered. "I only wanted to help all of them."

"You cannot--" Fergus began, but she straightened up immediately. 

"Yes, I can! I have to, and you--it is not your place to tell me what I cannot do." Her cloak spun out from her shoulders when she stalked away, stopping with her back to them all just where the protective roof of the cave met the jagged outline of sky. Huddled in her cloak, Morgelyn looked alone and lost and Gary understood; he knew what it was to try and fail to help, to think there was no other way to do the only thing that could possibly matter.

He glared at Fergus as he pushed past him. "You can help," he told Morgelyn softly. "We'll find a way, we'll find Robert again. We'll fix this, Morgelyn."

"There is no fixing this." Fergus grumbled. Gary whirled on him.

"There is. We will. But first we need some rest. Morgelyn? Right now, tonight, you have to take care of yourself, or you can't help anyone." He sounded like Oprah, for Pete's sake. But it worked. 

Her shoulders slumped. "I cannot go any farther." 

"Me neither."

Fergus let out a breath of relief.

"You do not have to. There's--oh dear." Declan stared at the walls that lined the cave, the scattered piles of boulders carved out by the sea, and Gary wondered whether they were safe from tides in here. 

"What are you doing?" Fergus asked Declan.

"There are things for you--food, and--oh, all rocks look the same in the dark!" 

They all caught the unintended joke at the same time. Fergus snorted, but Morgelyn started to laugh, high-pitched, with an hysterical edge. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she leaned against the cave wall. Infected by her giggles, Gary was close to laughing himself when Declan exclaimed, "Oh, here 'tis!" and pulled two bundles from a bowl-shaped indentation in a rock that protruded from the wall at eye level.

He gave the first bundle to Fergus. "There is food here for several days, and money."

"Too much money," Morgelyn breathed, when Fergus pulled out a jangling leather purse, weighing it in his hand. Looking genuinely horrified, she pushed her friend's arm toward Declan. "We cannot possibly accept this!" 

Fergus, on the other hand, looked genuinely thrilled. He pulled the money out of her reach. "Of course we can!"

"My uncle will skin me alive if I take it back," Declan protested, so wide-eyed that Gary knew he was serious. 

"What do we need this kind of money for, anyway?" Gary wanted to know, and Morgelyn drew her brows together, frowning. Whatever she'd figured out, she didn't like it.

Ignoring the question, Fergus jingled the bag in his hand. "I thought priests took a vow of poverty." 

"Except for indulgences and masses for the dead," Declan said, "they do." 

"But there has not been that much wealth in Gwenyllan since Father Ezekiel came, and even if there were, he wouldn't accept--Declan, is this Father Malcolm's money?" Looking from Declan to Fergus, Morgelyn stepped back, pulling her cloak tight around her. "It came from her."

"From Nessa?" 

Declan shrugged at Gary's question, but Morgelyn shook her head fiercely. "I will not take it."

Fergus hefted the money one more time before stowing it in the pouch at his waist. "It matters little where it came from, if it will help us get away."

"Of course it matters." By rights Gary should have been too tired to pick up on emotional innuendo, but he heard the way Morgelyn's next words turned to ice. "Get away?" 

"Yes." Fergus gave a satisfied nod. "As far away as Lady Nessa's money will take us."

Declan went on eagerly, oblivious to the duel of wills that was playing out before him. "Uncle Ezekiel said that you should leave before dawn for Plymouth. Do not try to board a ship in Polruan, though it is closer. 'Tis the first place they will look, and you are sure to be noticed." He turned to Gary. "He said that perhaps you should take them back to your home, sir, wherever it may be."

"Uh..." Gary didn't know what to say to that. "Maybe."

"My heart grieves that I will not see these friends again, but I want you to be safe." Declan looked back at Morgelyn. "Do you know the way to Plymouth?"

She was too busy glaring daggers at Fergus to respond. "Leave?" she said in a low voice that boded no good. "Board a ship?"

Fergus bristled and set his jaw into a solid square block. "What else are we to do?"

"Fergus, I will not--"

"What is that?" Gary croaked, trying to cut the budding argument short. He moved to stand between the two and pointed at the second bundle Declan held. Of course, every loosely-wrapped armful of burlap bag, or wool, or whatever it was, looked about the same to him, but something about the shape of this one was familiar. 

"'Tis yours, sir."

Gary grabbed it from his arms. It was heavy and solid, and if it was what he thought it was...

"What is it?" Morgelyn asked, curiosity overcoming her irritation with Fergus. Gary was too busy working the damp knots to answer. Between his headache and the shadows he could barely see them. 

"Damn it," he swore. "There's something wrong with these knots."

"I did not open it!" Declan protested. They all looked up at him, startled by his defensive tone. "My uncle said that I was not to open it under any circumstances, and I did not."

Suddenly grateful for the tight knots, Gary shifted his efforts to feeling the contents. He could make out a crinkle of paper, the heft of leather and cloth, and, wrapped inside them all, the weight and solid shape of the Dragon's Eye. Father Ezekiel had had good reason for his admonition.

"It's okay," he told Morgelyn. "Everything's here."

"Thank God," she whispered. 

Their eyes met, and said so much in that half darkness that Gary wasn't sure which way was up by the time he blinked. Home--everything he had of home was there in his hands again, and it was as much his ticket as that money was Fergus's, and Morgelyn's, if--

Well, that was the big if, wasn't it? If she'd take it, if she'd go.

"...go and make sure my uncle is well," Declan was saying. Gary blinked hard a couple of times. It was getting harder and harder to focus on what was real and what wasn't in all the darkness and his whirling, exhausted thoughts. 

"Please do," said Morgelyn. "He saved our lives, and if anything happens to him, I shall feel responsible."

"It would not be your fault," the young man assured her. "He would never blame you, nor would I." He looked at Gary. "You have all you need?"

"I think so," Gary said, clutching the bundle to his chest. "Thanks." 

Morgelyn spread her hands wide. "Declan, I do not think my thanks are enough compensation for all you have done--or your uncle--but I know not what else to offer."

"Your thanks are more than enough, I assure you." Declan shifted his feet. "If--Morgelyn, whatever happens, I swear by my life, I will make sure the truth is told. It is a very grievous thing to use the name of God to commit such atrocities." 

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "The truth could get you killed in these parts."

Declan shook his head. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make ye free," he quoted. "The Christ told us so, in the Gospel of John."

"And look where it got him," muttered Fergus.

"Be careful, Declan," Morgelyn cautioned. 

He turned to her, and his expression deepened into something more serious than Gary had ever seen on that face. Declan's voice went quiet, but it filled up the hollows of the cave with its command. "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel."

Gary stared at him, knowing his own mouth was hanging open, but powerless to close it. He was pretty sure he'd never look at Patrick in quite the same way again.

Morgelyn had listened with her head bowed; when she looked up again, she was biting her lip. "Thank you," she finally repeated, and it sounded as if she was choking on the words. Declan nodded.

"I will go with him to make sure I know the way out." Fergus was talking to Gary, but even in the gloom, Gary could see the concerned frown he gave Morgelyn. "I will return soon."

Gary waited until they had rounded the corner and their footfalls had stopped echoing back to them before he turned his attention to his bundle. He sat down near the entrance, where the moonlight was strongest, and went to work on the knots. Morgelyn sat next to him, curling her legs under her skirt and drawing her cloak around her like a blanket. The knots finally gave up the fight, and Gary opened the bundle. He pulled out his jeans, boots, sweater, and newspaper. But it was the Dragon's Eye he was most concerned about. It had been rolled into his leather jacket. After he'd unwrapped it, he held it up to the faint light and sure enough, the colors sprang to life, though not as intensely as they had in the abandoned manor house. 

And he felt a pull. Sadder now, not as urgent as it had been that morning, but still, calling him. 

"What does it mean?" he asked, though he was pretty sure Morgelyn didn't know the answer any more than he did. 

Her expression troubled, she touched the Dragon's Eye with a tentative finger. Her face was a seismograph, registering warring emotions in rapid succession, a new one with every blink. "You should go home."

"No."

"But--"

"This isn't over." He took a deep breath, then tipped it in her direction. "Take it, Morgelyn. I don't want to be pulled back there before I know you're going to be safe."

Fingers frozen on the glass ball, she stared up at him. "But what if that never happens?"

His empty stomach churned its own acid. It had to happen.

"What are you talking about?" Fergus's return startled them both. "Gary? Morgelyn? What is that thing doing?"

"Calling him home," Morgelyn said, staring at the colors. 

"You are leaving us?" Fergus managed to sound offended, confused, and the tiniest bit relieved, all at once.

Gary bit his lip, watching Morgelyn for another moment. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on," he finally said, and dumped the ball into her lap. The minute he let go of it, its light went out. 

Marissa, he thought, I know you hate this word, but I'm sorry. I truly am. He just hoped that somehow, some way, she would understand. Morgelyn held the ball back out to him, but he crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw. "I can be stubborn, too."

Fergus sighed, picked up the other bundle, and extracted a loaf of bread. After tearing it in two, he held half out to each. "Eat," he muttered.

"Please, Fergus, do not be angry," Morgelyn said wearily.

"I am not angry at you." Hard-edged, but just as exhausted, Fergus's response was barely audible over the waves. "It is too late now to make any decisions. Eat. Sleep if you can."

Gary's stomach had rumbled at the first whiff of the bread, and he tore off a huge chunk and shoved it in his mouth. Coarse and thick, it was just about the best thing he'd ever tasted. 

Setting the Dragon's Eye on the floor next to him, Morgelyn got awkwardly to her feet and approached Fergus. "Nor am I angry with you." She tore her bread, and offered him half. "You are my oldest friend."

"Except for Robert?"

"What?"

"Surely you do not think me older than Robert." Fergus's voice was a little too hoarse to pull the joke off, but it was enough to break the tension. He took the bread and gulped down two bites while Morgelyn forced out a short "huff" of a laugh. "Sleep for a while," he told her. "You look as if all the hounds of hell have been chasing you."

Morgelyn cocked her head at him.

"That was not a joke," he said sadly. "'Tis too close to the truth."

"Here." Gary picked up his sweater and folded it into a square, then stood and handed it to Morgelyn. "It's not the most comfortable pillow, but, well...it's better than a rock."

"Thank you." Moving back to the wall, she sank to her knees, then toppled over, drawing her cloak around her and tucking the sweater under her head. Gary watched for a minute, then paced over to the opening and looked out at the ocean. It was a cloudy night, and he couldn't see nearly as many stars as he had the first time. 

"You should rest, too," Fergus told him. "I will keep watch, though I doubt anyone will find us here." 

"I shouldn't."

Fergus's sigh was pure exasperation. "Do I have to argue with you as well?"

"No." Gary rubbed the back of his head, wincing. "No, I just mean--I had a concussion, you know? Probably a couple of them. Got knocked on the head," he elaborated when Fergus held out his hands helplessly. "And I shouldn't sleep for long, no more than three or four hours. That's what the doctors told me the last time." 

Fergus still looked confused, but he nodded. "It will not be much longer than that until sunrise, at any rate. Sleep while you can," he added, gesturing at the floor next to Morgelyn. "You will be no good to anyone if you cannot keep your eyes open when the time comes."

"What time? What's gonna happen next?"

"I do not know." Fergus glanced at Morgelyn's sleeping form, curled into her cloak. "I do not think any of us do."

"We should though." Gary glanced over at Morgelyn, but she didn't stir. Lowering his voice, he asked Fergus, "Where's the book?"

"I told you before. It is hidden."

One last surge of exasperation hit Gary. "You left it?"

"I could hardly bring it along, with Father Ezekiel there! What would he have thought?"

"How are we supposed to know what's going to happen?"

"But I do know." Fergus crossed his arms over his chest. "We are going to leave this place far behind. I am going to take Morgelyn somewhere safe. The book can rot in the woods for all I care."

Trying to contain his anger, Gary chewed on his lip. Maybe Cat would bring it in the morning, if he needed to see anything. For now, they were relatively safe, and after the past day, he decided, that was good enough. He turned his back on Fergus without another word. There was really only one thing he wanted before he gave in to his exhaustion, and he found it tucked neatly into his boots--the pair of socks he'd been wearing when he first got here. He let out a sigh of pure relief when he slipped on the tube socks, warm and dry and sheer heaven after walking around on cold, wet rocks. Fergus watched him without comment, then strode over to the cave opening and leaned against the wall. 

Morgelyn was asleep already, her breathing even and quiet. One hand rested on the Dragon's Eye, reassurance, Gary thought; she must have needed that connection. He tilted his head back against the rocks, wishing it would stop pounding. Even a drink of that mead would help. Anything to dull the day he'd just lived through. 

For the hundredth time at least, he wondered how things were at home, if anyone knew he was gone, if the homesickness he felt was mirrored by--what, grief?--and did he want them to feel that? Had what he'd seen in his last issue of the Sun-Times really happened? How would he get home to find out? There in the room with Father Ezekiel, the panic he'd felt when he'd reached for the Dragon's Eye--was that really Marissa's, or was it just his own? So much could have happened. He'd never been so damned confused.

Despite the ennervating questions, sleep finally caught him in its net. Lulled by the monotonous pounding of the waves, he slipped into oblivion.  


* * *

  
_Reality, he says, is relative  
Can you see the border?_  
~ Ian Hepburn

It might have been minutes she sat there, lost in thought after Josh's call, or it might have been hours. The traffic quieted down for the night, and the preternatural stillness of the atmosphere seeped through the open window. Marissa fought the urge to unfold the quilt in her lap and hide under it from a situation she didn't understand and couldn't change. 

No, they had to change it. For Gary, they had to.

She traced her fingers over the quilt blocks. Eight triangles made a pinwheel. 

"Marissa?" Chuck's voice drifted across the chasm of stillness. "You know what really scares me? This is starting to make sense."

Everything made sense, if one could find the reason behind it. Perpendicular rectangles made fence posts. Kites and squares made stars. Everything was part of a pattern...

Eight tiny triangles and one big one make flying geese, her grandmother had told her, because geese always fly in the same formation, a v-shape, always. They just know how, and no one can explain why. They just know.

"It's different," Josh had said, his words tangled in confusion, "but I can't remember what it said before. I just know it's different."

"Marissa? Hel-LO?"

She swallowed hard, found her voice. "It sounds just like Gary, doesn't it?" 

"To get involved in something this far over his head?" There was a rapid tapping on the hardwood floor, Chuck's staccato bouncing of his foot. "Yeah. It's so far over his head, it's no wonder he drow--"

"Chuck!"

"It's over his head, over the Center for Disease Control's head, over Amnesty Inter-freaking-national's head." He was up, circling the room as he took off on a verbal tirade. Slumping back against the sofa, Marissa tuned out, too overwhelmed to take it in any more. The day came back to her in disconnected sound bytes, without any coherence, without any pattern at all.

She picked one thread out of the tangle of her thoughts. "One of courage." 

"..and he probably could have asked for help and didn't, because he's so--huh?" Chuck's restless footfalls came to a halt somewhere behind her. 

"Maybe that's the key," she said quietly. "What Betsy Cooper said the words on the crystal ball mean. One of courage, one of faith, one of clearest sight."

"In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie," Chuck finished dryly. 

She shook her head; her thoughts shifted, tumbled, and realigned themselves, but they still made no sense. "There has to be a reason." It was her mantra, it was a life raft in this sea of impossibilities.

"A good reason?"

"Of course a good reason." Pushing herself up on the sofa, she twisted so that she was facing him. "What are you implying?" 

His voice snapped through the air like a whip. "Well, geez, Marissa, what part of 'burned at the stake' sounds like a happy ending to you?" 

She turned her back on him, flopping back down to a sitting position on the sofa. She smoothed the wrinkles she'd left in the quilt earlier and told herself that she was not going to cry. Not again, not in front of Chuck, not when they were so close to finding out what was going on. "Gary's there to change the ending."

"Oh, yeah. He's done that all right!"

Josh had said...no. She clenched her teeth until her molars ached. She knew, she just knew. Like the geese. "It's not over."

"And let me tell you, even if it's not, all this changing history is dangerous, even if he thinks he's changing it for the better."

"I assume it would be for the better, if it's Gary." She imbued her words with all the "end of discussion" finality she could muster. She wanted him to stop voicing all her own doubts and fears before she became too weary and gave in to them. "He--Chuck, please--"

Tea. She needed scalding hot tea to dissolve the lump in her throat. Setting the quilt aside, she got up and headed for the kitchen. 

Chuck trailed her like Spike after table scraps. "Changing history is a big problem, Marissa; did you ever think about that? He tried to stop the Chicago Fire without even thinking about what that would have done to the future. There might not have even been a McGinty's if he had!"

"But he didn't stop it. He helped the people he needed to, and changed the past just enough to stop that building from collapsing. It all worked out." She focused on the water running into the teakettle, on counting until it would be at just the right level, on carefully testing the gas burner with her palm just above it. She was not going to give into Chuck's ravings. 

Even if he refused to stop.

"Look, I'm still trying to make this make sense. Let's say that is what's happening. Gary's back in the middle ages, trying to stop a plague or a witch hunt or whatever. What happens if he changes it? What happens to us, to everything?"

"We'll be fine." There were mugs, teabags, spoons--all kinds of things to worry about. She didn't have to listen to this. 

"You don't know that!" Chuck exploded, and Marissa dropped the box of teabags. They scattered over the counter and at her feet on the floor. He came to help her pick them up, and she really wished he wouldn't get so strident this close to her face. "Trust me, I've seen enough B-grade science fiction movies to know what happens when you go messing around with history. You change one little thing, and everything else is affected. Gary could sneeze and spread a Chicago germ that would wipe out a whole village. He could _start_ the plague, for that matter!"

Marissa straightened up and took a step back. "For heaven's sake, Chuck."

"Or he could meet my great-great-great-whatever grandmother and she could fall in love with him and never marry the right guy! I could end up not being born!"

"That's ridiculous."

"You've never seen Gary. Women fall for him at the drop of a hat."

"That's not what I mean. This is not about you." He handed her the box--the wrong box, she decided. She needed decaf. There was herbal tea somewhere in the cupboard, peppermint or something. Her fingers traced Braille labels until she found it. Chamomile. Perfect. She wrapped her fingers around the reassuring geometry of the box and told Chuck, "Nothing is going to happen to us. Gary's there for a reason. We just need to be sure that he can get back home." 

His voice came from the general direction of the table. "But what if he does do something that changes the present--changes us?"

The corners of the cardboard box started to give way under the pressure of her palms. She opened the lid and took out two teabags. "Then that will be for a reason, too."

"Oh, that'll be a real comforting thought as I'm blinking out of existence!"

"Don't be melodramatic."

"I'm melodramatic? You're talking about reason in the same breath that you're talking about a crystal ball taking a guy back in time! Explain that to me, will you?" He stalked out of the kitchen. 

With a sigh, she leaned back against the counter and wrapped one arm around her stomach. She wasn't going to cry, even though it was turning out to be just as hard to keep Chuck on her side as it had been to get him there in the first place. Aunt Gracie had been right. Faith itself was the most difficult step of all. 

His footsteps thudded back into the kitchen, and something slammed onto the table. "What is this thing supposed to do?"

"Calm down, okay? Don't break it."

"You said you made it work this morning."

"Well, not work, exactly." Gary hadn't come home, after all. 

The kettle whistled. She filled the mugs and carried them both over to the table. The sound of a chair scraping across the linoleum was like fingernails on a chalkboard to her exhausted nerves, and she jumped. Tea sloshed out of the mugs and onto her hands. 

"Here, sit." Some of his calm and good manners restored, Chuck took the mugs from her hands and set them on the table, guided her to a chair with a touch on her elbow. She heard him ease himself into a chair, then sigh. "Tell me."

"I didn't make it work, it just happened, like I told you in the office this afternoon." She gulped down tea, but it didn't help at all. Placing the mug back down on the table, she reached for the ball, or where she thought it might be, but withdrew her hand almost as soon as she realized what she was doing. She was half-afraid to touch it, after Josh's call; afraid it would burn her, or that she'd touch it and know that Gary--

"You want it?"

Marissa pulled her hands into her lap and shook her head. "No, you try." There was no Patrick to interrupt them this time, and maybe they could get Gary home. Right now, before the worst happened.

"Try what?" Chuck asked. 

"Think about Gary. About a time when it really mattered. When we needed each other."

He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Remember when Crumb used to call us the Three Musketeers?"

"And the Three Amigos," she countered with a faint grin.

"The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, too." Chuck's voice had grown quiet, soft. "I miss that." 

No amount of tea would break down the boulder lodged in her throat now. "We still are, Chuck. All of us."

But he kept going in the past tense. "It was the only time Crumb ever called me something besides short, the only time he didn't massacre my name--when he was lumping me in with the two of you."

"Crumb does like you. He's just--"

"Got a funny way of showing it."

"Yes."

"You know," Chuck said, less edgy now, "Gar always stuck up for me, to Crumb and everybody else, even though I was a rat half the time."

Marissa lifted an eyebrow. "He still does."

"I still need sticking up for?" 

"Only when financial, personnel, or supply issues come up." Marissa waited a moment, but he didn't laugh. "You want him back?"

"I really do."

She reached out and touched his arm. "He can come home--" she began, but he tensed, and then swore under his breath. Something tingled under her fingers, through the cotton cloth of his shirt. "Chuck? What is it?"

"What the hell is this thing? It looks like the Rainbow Connection," he squeaked.

Her heartbeat tripled. She reached out tentative fingers, and Chuck placed the glass under them. There was something, she felt it again, something beyond words--

Someone.

The feelings weren't as intense as those of the morning; there was not as much fear, just an overwhelming wave of sorrow and exhaustion. And connection. It was still there, he was still there, and there was nothing Marissa could do now to stop the tears that stung her eyes.

"Gar?" Chuck choked. 

He'd felt it, too. This was confirmation; she knew she hadn't been imagining it. "Chuck," she whispered, "we have to--"

Another feeling hit her, a wave of regret. 

And just like that, it was gone. All of it. Gary.

"Where'd he go?" Chuck asked, but she couldn't answer. 

Gone, sighed the faint breeze that tickled the back of her neck, even though the window in here was closed. Neither one of them moved, and the air went still again. Marissa knew it wasn't going to do any good, not tonight; she was holding on too long, past reason, even the reason she believed existed. But not past hope.

"This is what happened before?"

"Yes and no. It's not the same." Still she held on, kept contact, if only to ask, just in case, one more chance that maybe...but she knew in her heart it wasn't going to happen tonight. "He felt exhausted, Chuck."

"Gary?"

"Gary."

"I dunno, it was weird." A slight change in the way he was holding the crystal ball, a little push toward her, told her he wanted her to take it. She wrapped her hands around the glass, and a chair squeaked as Chuck shifted his weight. 

"Did you see colors, Chuck? Like Gary did, that first day?"

"It got all swirly, like a lollipop on an acid trip. Are you sure that lettering doesn't say Lucasfilm?"

She sighed. 

"Okay, okay," Chuck acquiesced. "I can't say if it was Gary. It's not like I saw him or anything. How can you be so sure it's him?"

"I don't know, it just was." She just knew. She couldn't explain it, any more than she could explain why, now, there was nothing there, try as she might to touch the right place, to reach out with her mind and heart and find him again. "Sometimes I come out into the bar and know he's there, even with all the other people, and this is like that."

"You always did seem to pick up stuff out of the atmosphere."

Marissa let the silence fill between them again for a few moments, then set the Dragon's Eye back on the table with a sigh. "It wasn't like this morning, though, thank God. He's alive, and the danger isn't so bad."

"Except for that whole gonna-be-burned-at-the-stake deal, right?"

She didn't have an answer for that, so she sipped at her tea instead. It was cold, and offered no comfort at all.


	21. Chapter 21

_I feel a shadow passing over me that could stay forever more.  
Like a wave I'm breaking far at sea, there's no-one to hear the roar...  
What if I could cross a hundred borders--  
There's no going home._  
~ Stephen Knightley

"Gary, where did you go?"

The next time he woke, Marissa's voice, really Marissa's voice, no accent, just concern, echoed in his head, the end of a dream that he couldn't remember. He'd been trying to find her, but he couldn't reach her, and--

"Where would we go?" 

Gary's eyes popped open, but fog had crept in; it clung to his clothes and skin, shrouding the world, muffling the ocean sounds and the voices that were somewhere behind him, back in the cave, he finally decided. The way sounds bounced off the rocks, it was hard to tell. He had fallen asleep sitting against the wall, and was slumped down, too stiff, for the moment, to move.

"There is nowhere to go, nowhere at all. Where would I ever fit in?" Morgelyn continued.

"'Tis not a matter of fitting in." Fergus's voice was tight. "Do you think I fit in? Why should we worry about that, with a whole world to see?"

"It would not be seemly for us to travel together. And what good is seeing the world if there is no home to which we can return? We would be like fish in the ocean, always circling, never stopping anywhere." She sounded weary, even though she'd slept. Then again, all the sleep in the world wouldn't make this decision easy. "Thank you for offering, but this is my home. I have to find a way to make this work." 

Gary could swear he heard Fergus's patience snap in the split-second of silence that followed. "I did not save your life so that you could turn around and offer it back to those ingrates as some kind of misguided sacrifice!"

"I did not ask you to save it!"

"Are you saying you would rather be back there in that dungeon?"

"Of course not, I--" Morgelyn gulped, and Gary shivered. He should stop this. But then, after a short pause, she asked, "Oh, why do we always end up arguing? Please, Fergus, try to understand. They need me."

"What they want is someone to blame. I will not let that be you."

"It is not as if you know what will happen if I go back."

"I am fairly certain that I do."

"And I am more than fairly certain of what will happen if I leave." There was a desperate catch in her voice. "Father Ezekiel may be in danger, and all the others, they will die. Too many of them. Again."

"You were ever the most stubborn woman in creation, save your grandmother, and now I believe you are worse."

"Do not bring my grandmother into this!"

Gary shifted uncomfortably on the stone. Maybe he wasn't supposed to be hearing this argument. Then again, they weren't making an effort to keep their voices down.

"And what would she say about all this?" Fergus pressed. "Have you thought of that?"

"I have thought of little else. I wish she was here. I wish I knew what to wish for."

Fergus sighed. "Amalia would be appalled. She would never want you to stay if it meant you would be hurt."

"We stayed here all through the months of the sickness. She stayed even though she knew it could kill her."

"It is killing still. It has them so scared that they are willing to kill you. If Amalia had known--"

"She would want me to fulfill my duty to these people. I promised her I would stand with them when they needed me."

"You can stand by no one if you are dead!"

There was no answer, and Gary could hear gulls squawking out over the water.

Fergus's next words were exasperated, demanding an answer that he knew he wasn't going to get. "I told you once, I will not stay and bear witness to this."

"I will go back alone if I have to, but I am not leaving Gwenyllan. Fergus--Fergus!" Morgelyn's voice rose, but there was no response. Gary peeked through his lashes and saw her shadowy form come around the corner, through the fog, alone.

"He will return," she said, and her voice was so soft and small that Gary opened his mouth to reassure her, to tell her that he was just being Chuck-like, or, rather, Fergus-like, but maybe she hadn't realized he was awake. She might be embarrassed to be caught talking to herself. He closed his mouth, watched her back as she stared out at the blank wall of fog. 

"Gary? Do you think he will come back?"

He should have known she'd be able to tell he was awake. Stretching his legs, lifting his arms over his head and wincing as the punches he'd taken kept doing their work, he started to answer, but his voice was so rough and gravelly that what came out was unintelligible. A wish for coffee was pushed away as he got to his feet and joined her by the mouth of the cave. Though the sea continued its everlasting roar, it was completely hidden by the fog, out there somewhere, a few yards or a hundred away. Morgelyn sat on the edge of the rock floor of their cave, her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped protectively around her knees, only her bandaged hand standing out from the tight knot she'd made of herself.

"Yeah," Gary managed after clearing his throat and coughing, which elicited a sharp glance from Morgelyn. "I'm sure he'll be back. How are you doing?"

"I know not." Morgelyn gazed into the fog. "I know naught."

Feeling as creaky and decrepit as a haunted house door, Gary eased himself down to sit next to her. He let his legs hang off the edge of the rock, gripping the ends with his hands and peering down, only to discover that he couldn't see his feet. 

"I wish I could see the future," she murmured softly. "Then I would know what to do. But it is as foggy as this morning."

Gary stared down into the soft grey. "We know what the book said yesterday. About us, about you. Fergus just doesn't want to see you hurt any more."

She uncurled her legs. "That is not what I meant. I meant the future, the whole future, all of ours. I do not know how to make this choice. I want to see the world, like my grandmother did, but not like this. Running away from this feels wrong. Fergus refuses to see that. Leaving now would be like flinging myself off this ledge. I could fall a few feet and land in the sand, no worse for the wear, or I could fall too far, land on the rocks, and break, just like my mother."

Gary fought the urge to grab her arms and pull her back from the ledge. He knew she wasn't about to jump, but just the thought scared him. When she didn't move, he finally managed, "The same thing is true if you go back, you know."

She nodded. "There is nothing left to cling to, nothing solid. Like the tide remakes the sand, it is a new world, and I am not sure that it has a place for me."

"That's very poetic." Rubbing his face, Gary added, "But true." He pushed the wish for coffee back more firmly than he had the first time, and searched instead for some bit of wisdom he could give her through his befuddled state. He hadn't had enough sleep to have this conversation, or to heal, but then, he wasn't sure he ever would. Somewhere out beyond the fog, the sun was rising; the air around them was lightening, the fog gradually turning more white than grey.

"Fergus said that going back is dangerous and stupid."

"Maybe it's dangerous and brave." Gary forced a smile, but it wouldn't stick. "Look, Morgelyn, I know you feel responsible, but after what happened, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't go back. Nobody would." Father Ezekiel would probably blame Gary if she did go back, he thought ruefully.

"I would. My grandmother might."

"I don't think even your grandmother would." He paused, remembering the conversation they'd had down on the beach, a few days, a few lifetimes, ago. "You told me that she left her home and wouldn't even talk about it. So I think she'd understand if you left now." 

There was raw confusion in Morgelyn's voice. "Perhaps she regretted it. Perhaps that is why she made me promise to stay and help."

"You can only do so much. If they won't take your help, then maybe it's time to go." It sounded like a betrayal, knowing how strongly she felt. But Gary had to say it, he had to try, because that's what he was here to do, to get Morgelyn out of this.

Wasn't it?

"Would your city ever turn on you?"

Startled, he bent his head and tried to read her face. 

"You are such a good person, Gary, but I wonder if you can possibly understand what this is like. I thought they trusted me, but more than that, I trusted them. That they would believe me capable of such things stings."

Gary worked his jaw, wondering if he should bring this up. "Once..." He shivered as if the June fog had turned to January snow. It had been almost two years ago, but whenever he thought about Marley, everything still felt fresh, not once upon a time at all.

Morgelyn swiveled and fixed him with a curious stare. "Once?" she prompted. 

"Once they did. Once everyone thought--almost everyone thought--that I had killed a man, and that I was going to kill another." Gary ended up telling her the whole story, as much of it as she would understand and some things she wouldn't. He gave up trying to couch everything in medieval terms when he got to the night he'd found Hawks, when he'd spent the whole night on the L, riding from station to station hoping no one would find him. Hiding in plain sight. Running and hiding and trying to figure out, through his shock and desperation, the right thing to do. The paper hadn't changed until it was all over. He'd had a clue about the worst possible consequence, but nothing other than his own moral compass to help him make his decision. 

"Did it ever cross your mind to leave the city, so that they would not find you?" Morgelyn asked.

Gary nodded. "But they were watching every way out. It wasn't possible."

"No way at all, in such a large city?"

"I guess I could have found some way, but--"

"But you did not." Her stare was direct now, and full of meaning. Fergus would have a fit if he knew. Gary wasn't sure he should be giving her ammunition. 

Still, he swallowed hard and said, "If I had left, no one would have known that Marley was trying to kill the president; no one would have stopped him. I couldn't have spent the rest of my life with that on my conscience."

"But that man nearly killed you. What did your paper say would happen before you went to him?"

Gary didn't know what to tell her. It had all been so complicated, and he'd never told anyone, not even Chuck and Marissa, what the paper had said about him, not beyond the accusations of things that he would never have done, that they would never have believed. He'd kept the rest from them because they would have believed it all too readily, and stopped him from going to the Randolph building. And if they had, Marley would have won, and somehow Gary would have been blamed. He probably wouldn't have lived long enough to protest his innocence in a trial. 

More than that, he hadn't been able to stand the way his friends had looked at him to begin with, their fear and concern and helplessness. Chuck's admission that he had almost believed Marley's frame-up was a lot easier to deal with than the panicked looks he'd directed Gary's way, and Marissa had walked around looking as if her heart was cracking deeper with every minute. How could he have added to that? How could he have told them?

"Gary?"

He sighed. "It told me that if I went to that building, I was going to die."

Her eyes went wide with something more than sympathy, with real understanding. "When did it change?"

When Marley had keeled over at Gary's feet, felled by Crumb's bullet; when Gary had turned from the disbelieving stares of the cops and glanced at the paper on the floor and the headline had finally faded away; when he'd been able to breathe again. "When it was all over." 

Morgelyn gave her head a rueful shake. "It is not the most helpful oracle, is it?"

"No. But that's not the point. It was telling me what I had to change, not what would happen minute-by-minute. I had to go on faith and make my own choice."

"And your friends did not argue with you?"

"I didn't tell them what the paper said."

She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction Fergus had gone. "That was wise." There was a pause; she looked down at her hands. "Fergus does not understand."

"Fergus is your friend. He doesn't want to see you hurt. Neither do I, but if you think you need to go back, I understand. Just don't try to go off alone, all right?"

"You heard that?"

He nodded. "That was the other thing, about what happened to me. Not everyone thought I had killed Hawks. Marissa and Chuck, they didn't stop believing in me. They trusted me all along, and they made Crumb believe it. I made the choice to be there in the end, but without my friends, the paper would have been right."

"Your choice and your friends," Morgelyn repeated. "Thank you, Gary." There was a faint smile on her face when she added, "A dragon slayer like St. George might not have understood this. And he might not have become my friend. But you do understand, and you are my friend, and if your friends believed in you then, I am sure they will believe in you now."

"Believe what?" Fergus's voice behind them made them both jump. They caught at each other to keep from falling off the ledge. Morgelyn clambered to her feet, offering Gary her good hand as he struggled to his own.

"We are going back, Fergus," she told him with more command in her voice than Gary had heard throughout all the long hours. "You may do as you wish, but we are going to help the people of Gwenyllan."

His jaw worked for a moment. He turned blazing eyes on Gary. "You are responsible for this. I do not know how, but it's your fault."

"Fergus," Morgelyn warned. 

"'Tis lunacy!" He strode right up to Gary and slammed Morgelyn's book into his chest. Propelled backward by the force of Fergus's temper, Gary blinked at the familiar face and tried to get his breath back. "I went back to find this, to show you--this--this thing still says you both will die. It has not changed."

Gary looked down at his chest, at the curled fists and the awkward little book. Fergus glared up at him, his goatee trembling with something more than anger. He was scared. So it wouldn't do any good to get mad right back at him. Gary didn't have the energy anyway. 

"What did you do to her?" Fergus looked back at Morgelyn. His hands pulled away from Gary's chest; the book slid down and Gary caught it.

"Nothing. He did nothing." Morgelyn held out her hand. "Give me the book."

He held it out to her over Fergus's shoulder. Still petulant, Fergus had both hands on his hips as Morgelyn read the last few pages. Then she shut her eyes, drew the book in tight and wrapped both arms over it. "You were right, Gary," she said, eyes still closed. "It will not change until we cause it to change."

"He told you--but you--you already did that once," Fergus sputtered, looking from one to the other as if he didn't know which was causing him more frustration. "You changed it and now it is worse than yesterday morning. If you do not do something to save yourselves, you will both die."

Gary rubbed the back of his neck while he tried to think of what to say. He knew Fergus's fears were well-grounded. But he also knew, in his gut, in his heart, that Morgelyn was right. "In that case," he finally told Fergus, "I guess we could use your help this time." 

Fergus snorted. "You need more help than I can give."

"We will not die if we work together to stop it from happening." Morgelyn used the same tone of voice she had with Tamsyn, with Robert. "Fergus, I know you are afraid, and so am I, but I trust you. I know you will not abandon us."

They locked eyes in a silent battle of wills; finally, Fergus's expression softened, though the scowl didn't entirely disappear. "When this is over," he grumbled, "I intend to go somewhere that is much less populated."

"You will take Cecily with you," Morgelyn said with a twinkle. She pushed past Fergus to where the few things they had with them were piled.

He gaped at her like a beach-stranded fish. "What do you mean?" 

Morgelyn shot him a knowing smile. "'Tis meant to be," she said simply. "If everything works out, I have a feeling you will stay here for a long time."

As they went about putting their odds and ends together, Gary bit back his own response: that he hoped his work here was almost over. That he wouldn't be staying for a long time. Not just because it would have been rude, but because he was no longer sure that it was completely true. Because, in a way, if he had to be lost in time, he supposed that there weren't two other people he'd rather be with.  


* * *

  
_Nothing belonging to God can burn,  
any more than God himself.  
I shall remain.  
Do you tell me   
that God's children  
can't stand fire?_  
~ Carl Sandburg

"There's a storm out at sea." Morgelyn bookended her pronouncement with delicate sniffs at the air. Other than that, Gary had no idea how she could tell. They were too deep in the forest to see much of the sky. Still, she pulled her cloak close around her as she led the way along the river.

"There will be one here as well, if you keep on with this." Fergus hurried to keep up with her despite the withering glare she shot him. "'Tis not too late to turn around."

"No."

Gary kept his mouth shut. He'd been listening to the two of them go at it since early that morning in the cave, at Morgelyn's cottage, and now here in the forest, headed back to Gwenyllan in the mid-morning mist that was all that was left of the fog. Maybe bickering was their way of dealing with nerves--certainly it seemed to be Fergus's--but it was making Gary's anxiety even worse. 

"If we take the fork up ahead we can be across the moor and halfway to Plymouth before anyone is the wiser." Pointing down the path to where Gary could just make out the split, Fergus bounced nervously on his toes, despite being weighed down by his pack and by a large earthenware jug which hung from his back in a hastily-fashioned rope harness. 

"I said no the first time, and the second, and all the times thereafter, or have you lost your sense of hearing?" Tired and tense, Morgelyn's voice lacked the cutting edge that she seemed to save for sparring with Fergus. Her heart clearly wasn't in it, but Fergus kept up, as he had since before sunrise.

"It seems to me that you have taken leave of all sense. Look, right here," he persisted. "We can--Morgelyn!"

Morgelyn didn't respond. She strode purposefully ahead of Fergus, taking the left branch of the trail without so much as glancing at the other fork. Fergus threw an irate scowl back at Gary. "This is all your doing."

Gary sighed, but decided that this time, he'd be better off just staying out of the argument. And Fergus was right. He'd as much as told her to go back. Ahead of him, Fergus took one last, longing look at the right fork, heaved a sigh of his own, and then followed Morgelyn. Though the peddler didn't know what had been said during his absence, he had nonetheless decided that it was Gary's fault, this decision to return to Gwenyllan and take their chances among the villagers. He was right, of course. Anything that would happen, that was about to happen, would be a direct result of that conversation about Marley and the fact that Gary hadn't run away from him. But she'd asked, and he couldn't lie. 

Not even if it meant saving her life? chided a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Chuck's, like Fergus's; despite the accent, it was becoming more and more difficult to tell them apart. He tramped after the pair, resisting the urge to stop them and ask Morgelyn to get out the book. She'd tucked that, along with a few extra plants picked fresh from her garden, into her own bag, the one swinging from her shoulder. But it would just show the same thing it had before they'd started off from the cottage, the same thing that had been there since they'd been in the dungeon. The story wouldn't change, if it was going to change at all, until they got to the village and did what Morgelyn thought they had to do.

Which apparently involved getting the residents of Gwenyllan--the ones who were sick, anyway--to drink whatever it was she'd brewed up and given to Fergus to carry. 

He tried to ignore his own burden and the way it tingled against his skin, even through the leather pouch that he'd tied onto his belt. He hadn't wanted to carry the Dragon's Eye--he'd even suggested leaving it with his own clothes and newspaper at Morgelyn's cottage--but what had started out as a hesitant suggestion on her part had blossomed into stubborn insistence. 

He had stood guard outside her cottage while she and Fergus had worked on the potion, or medicine, to cure the illness. Poised just inside the stone wall, where the gate hung like a broken bird's wing from one leather hinge, he'd started at the cry of a hawk, but had seen no sign of the more malevolent predators they all feared. Not even Cat had shown up to keep an eye on him. Keeping watch had been easier than looking at the cottage, with its splintered door and ruined roof. Even with his back to it, the sharp smell of charred thatch and the trampled plants at his feet had been painful reminders of all that had happened the day before. There had been something withdrawn about it all, as if Morgelyn's garden and home had pulled into themselves to hide or to heal. But up and down the path, in all the other directions Gary could see, it was the forest that was alive in the foggy grey morning. It seemed to be watching him while it went crazy-mad green in what passed for summer around here. He could hear the river rushing over the fall, and, if he listened closely enough, the throbbing heartbeat of the ocean. Calling him home, he had thought, but not yet.

"Gary?" He'd jumped at the quiet voice behind him; flashed an embarrassed grin at Morgelyn as he'd turned around. She'd changed back into the dark green dress, re-bandaged her hand, and re-braided her hair. Despite the bruises on her face, she had looked more composed than he'd seen her since two nights ago. Tendrils of steam, pungent and spicy, curled out from the pewter mug she offered. "Drink this. It will help the aches and pains," she assured him. "How is your head?"

"Feels like someone's been using it for shot-putt practice," Gary admitted. Not bothering to explain, he took the mug, sipped, and found it wasn't too bad. A little bitter, but at least it was warm. 

"Grandmother always said willow bark was the best thing for such pains." Morgelyn looked back at the cottage with a sigh. "I am glad she is not here to see this."

"It's mostly just the roof," Gary said. He nodded over the rim of his cup at where the thatch had burned away. "That can be redone, can't it?"

"Mmm." Her noncommittal response told him that she was talking about more than just the burned roof, the trampled garden, the stones knocked loose from the low wall. She inhaled deeply and smiled at him. "It is good to breathe free air." 

"Yeah." Gary wondered just how long it would last, this freedom. Who knew what would be waiting for them? Well, he did, he'd seen the end of the book, and the news wasn't good. The hawk circled around and called out again.

"Someone has disturbed her nest," Morgelyn murmured, squinting into the glare of low grey clouds to spot the brown form overhead. Gary frowned, wondering how she could tell, but didn't ask. They both watched the bird trace wide circles over the back edge of the forest and the moor beyond, toward Nessa's manor. He was lost in contemplation, too tired to find words, when Morgelyn's voice startled him again.

"You should take it." Blinking, Gary found himself staring at a tan leather pouch that had been dangling from her wrist, now held out in her open palm, and he recognized the shape of the Dragon's Eye. "In case--" Morgelyn swallowed hard, looked away for a moment. "You have to be able to get home." 

"But--"

"It is as you said last night. It should be your choice when you go back. I am glad you are staying to help, truly I am, but if anything happens to us, you will have no choice without this. Please."

He didn't move a muscle. He'd already decided, more than once, that he wouldn't--couldn't--go back until it was all over. One way or another. "Maybe we should just leave it here and come back for it when we're done."

"We may not come back at all." She was trying to say it matter-of-factly, but didn't quite succeed. The sad resignation in her voice made him glad he had the fence to lean against, to hold him up. What the hell were they walking into? 

"I just meant--" Gary swallowed hard. He set the mug down and picked up a loose stone; tapped it against the top of the wall. "If people see it, they might think--"

"They may see it for what it is," Morgelyn finished for him, her voice gaining insistence. "Or for what they think it is. But it does not matter if it will help you."

"They might," he said, finally meeting her steadier gaze, "use it against you."

Her eyes got very bright, but all she said was, "Hide it under your shirt; tie this pouch to your belt and no one will notice." With a quick nod that sealed the deal, she exchanged the Dragon's Eye for his now-empty mug and turned back to the cottage. "We shall leave as soon as the sun crests the hill."

How she would know with all those clouds around, he hadn't been sure, but it had only seemed like a couple of minutes before they had all set off toward the village. And Gary did, of course, have the Dragon's Eye with him. It pressed against his side, but he tried to ignore it. He figured that if he could forget it was there, maybe no one else would realize it either.

Now, where the path curved away from the river, Morgelyn stopped at a bush and picked sprays of tiny yellow flowers. "This is rue." She tucked one sprig into Gary's rolled-up sleeve. "For protection," she added when he raised an eyebrow. She wove a bit of it into her own braid and handed the rest to Fergus, who snorted but twirled it in his fingers as they walked. 

Oh, yeah, this was much better. They would be just fine. 

"Now that we are well protected," Fergus said with more than a little sarcasm, most of which, Gary knew, was directed at him, "what is our plan?"

They slowed their brisk pace when the bridge came into view. "First," Morgelyn said, "first, we must make certain that Tolan has not suffered a relapse. And find Robert, and the others who might be ill. I hope Anna can tell me who they are. If she cannot, perhaps Father Ezekiel will."

"Oh, yes." Fergus wagged his head ruefully. "He will be overjoyed to see you."

"He will understand." Morgelyn fixed what they could make out of the village with a determined stare. "I will make him understand."

"Before or after you are tied to the stake? Perhaps when they light the fire at your feet, he will see why this had to be."

"Cut it out!" Gary couldn't stand to hear this, even though he understood what Fergus was trying to do. Part of him sympathized, but it was too late to go back now. "You're not going to change anybody's mind here."

"What makes either of you think that you can?"

"We don't have to change their minds," Gary said. "Just their futures." 

Morgelyn nodded. "Gary has a great deal of practice with that."

Maybe, but he wasn't sure he deserved that much confidence.

"This--" Fergus shrugged, shifting the jar on his back. "--is not enough. You saw Robert last night. He is still sick. But even if you could cure them, it would not be enough."

"It is all that matters."

"No, not all. _You_ matter." But there wasn't any audience for Fergus's argument this time. Morgelyn was already at the bridge. Gary, too, started past him, determined not to let her out of his sight, but Fergus grabbed his arm. "Wait. Here, take this." He pulled a knife from the pack at his side and held it out to Gary. 

"What would I want with that?"

"In case you need it." Fergus tilted his head toward the village, raising an eyebrow. 

"I won't." Gary didn't want to find out if he could hurt someone just to protect himself, or even his friends. He couldn't imagine himself sticking a blade into another person. "I told you before, I'm not really a dragon slayer."

"We have certainly seen much evidence of that." Fergus slipped the knife into the belt of his tunic with a scowling twist of his mouth.

Ignoring the barb, Gary hurried off after Morgelyn. 

"Right then," Fergus said. "To our doom!"

The little town seemed shrouded in grey, even with the sun burning off the fog. Droopy, browning remains of flower garlands littered the open ground. One little wish boat, its mast broken, lay on its side on the bridge railing. The whole place looked as if it had a hangover. Maybe once everyone woke up, they'd come back to their senses.

The idea sounded good in Gary's head. He even believed it, until he saw the pile of logs between the well and the church, stark against the pale grey sky. It had to have been at least as high as his shoulders. Fergus glowered, even darker than before. "This is your reward for having faith in them, Morgelyn."

"No." But she stood staring at the wood, mesmerized. 

"It's not how the story ends," Gary said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "We'll talk to them, and we'll change it. Once they see the truth, they'll change their minds."

"And what if they do not?" All sarcasm fled, and Fergus's voice was urgent with fear. He gripped Morgelyn's stiff arm. "Leave your brew with Anna, and we can be gone before anyone knows."

Morgelyn sighed and turned from the scene. Shrugging Fergus away, she started down the lane that led to Anna's cottage. "No. Gary is right." 

"That would certainly be a first." 

"We can do this," Gary said with a whole lot more conviction than he felt. 

They'd only gone a few yards when high-pitched cries made them turn. A group of small children darted out from behind one of the houses. They dragged swags of half-dead flowers behind them; some stopped to arrange the garlands on the pile of logs, calling happily to each other. The sight made Gary queasy.

"They are only playing." Morgelyn's smile missed her eyes. 

The three strode toward Anna's house, Gary and Fergus protectively flanking Morgelyn. They were only a few yards away from the lifeless-looking hovel when a louder commotion than the children's erupted behind them, across the common. Half a dozen men stumbled out of the tavern, barking harsh commands, tossing something from man to man. Something that flashed ginger fur in the strengthening sunlight and yowled at the top of its lungs.

Gary went cold with recognition and fear. "Cat?" He took off toward the well at a dead sprint. The kids were in the way, chasing after each other and squealing. Swerving to avoid them, he tripped over a stone and went down on his knees, sending a fresh wave of pain jarring through his worn-out limbs. Back up as soon as he could find breath, he hurtled forward, driven by the fright he thought he heard in Cat's cries, something he would have sworn the animal had never felt until now. His attention was focused not on his surroundings, not on the sound of footsteps somewhere behind him, but only on the scene at the well. 

The men were drunk, stumbling into each other and cursing loudly. Two of the them bent over a third, who held Cat, and they were all doing something with their hands. One jumped back, sucking on his fingers. Gary now saw Cat clearly, as Simon Elders held it above his head, over the black hole. There was a rope tied to Cat's back leg, and at the end of the rope another man had secured a stone. 

Somewhere behind him, Fergus was shouting at him to stop, but Gary couldn't. 

He was only a few yards away when Simon dropped Cat into the well.  


* * *

  
_There lives more faith in honest doubt,  
Believe me, than in half the creeds._  
~ Alfred Tennyson

Crumb shifted the donut bag from one hand to the other and scowled at the darkening sky. It was supposed to rain, maybe even storm, before long, and for once it looked like the forecasters had got it right. He pressed the door buzzer again. It was after eight; there was no reason why they shouldn't be up.

No reason but sheer emotional exhaustion, he reminded himself, and almost turned back for his car. Maybe he shouldn't have come. At that moment Marissa's voice, groggy with sleep, sounded from the tiny speaker next to the door. "Who's there?"

"The Avon lady." The joke was half-hearted, hardly the best thing he could come up with. But it was enough to get the door opened a few seconds later.

Marissa stood before him, wearing the same clothes as the day before, hair rumpled, guide dog at her heels. Crumb shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. I thought--"

"It's okay." She smoothed her hair as she stepped aside to let him in, and his peripheral vision caught a tangled quilt on the sofa. "I fell asleep down here last night. I guess I needed it more than I thought. I shouldn't have slept so long, though." A look of pure distress crossed her face. 

"Yeah, you should've," Crumb said firmly. 

"But we don't know--" She faltered, swallowing back something, trying to compose her features, but it was clear to Crumb that she was just as messed-up inside as out. It was getting harder and harder for her to keep that wave of emotion--and information--from him, and he was getting tired of watching her try to hide it. What was he supposed to do, if they wouldn't tell him what was going on? 

"I brought breakfast," he finally said, letting her off the hook again. Spike wagged his tail, cocking his head brightly at Crumb. 

"Donuts?" Marissa asked with a perplexed sniff in his direction.

"Why not? They're jelly-filled."

"Why not," she mumbled, and pushed some button on the answering machine in the foyer, shoulders drooping when a computerized voice declared that there were no new messages. Crumb wondered whose call she'd been expecting, but he didn't ask.

"I don't know if Chuck--" Marissa was already a few feet into the living room when she realized he wasn't following her. She stopped and turned around, Spike mimicking her movements. "Crumb? Are you--is there--?"

"What?" He wasn't sure what it was she wanted to ask, but she didn't seem to have the right words. That was saying something, for this lady. At this point he was so damned confused about things that he didn't dare try to guess what was going through her head.

"Nothing, I guess." They both paused, each waiting for the other to speak. She finally headed back into the living room, and this time he followed her. That crystal ball they'd fished out of the lake was sitting on her coffee table. She picked it up, running her fingers over the glassy surface as if she was waiting for something to pop up out of it. "Chuck?" she called, then lowered her voice to ask, "Is he down here?"

It didn't take long to make a scan of the living room or the kitchen Crumb could see beyond. "Nope. Fishman!" he bellowed up the stairs. "Up and at 'em!"

Marissa cringed, but didn't protest. She nodded toward the kitchen and set the crystal ball back down, self-consciously brushing at her clothes. "Do you want some coffee?" 

"Let me make it," he offered. "You can go and freshen up." 

"Sure. Coffee's--"

"I'll find it." Crumb watched her cross the room back to the foyer and the stairs before he headed for the kitchen. When, exactly, had he become close enough to these people to speak with them in shorthand? 

He set down the bag of donuts next to the coffee maker, and tried to figure out what the hell he was doing there. He felt too big, too ungainly, even though Marissa's townhouse wasn't much smaller than his own home. It was just a whole lot more feminine than the places where he was used to hanging out. Everything was clean and precise, and he was half-afraid he'd mess up the careful order. Overhead he could make out footsteps and muffled voices, then running water. Might as well get to it. The coffee and filters were in the cupboard directly over the coffee maker, right where they should have been. 

He should have been at home, rattling around the empty house. Or at the bar, getting it ready for the wake. Or at the station, bugging Nick and anyone else who'd listen for more information. Not that there was any to give, but that was what he did, what they all did, when the case involved a friend. But instead he'd stopped at Dunkin' Donuts and, out of habit, bought too many jelly-filleds to eat alone. So he'd brought them here. He knew he wasn't going to be able to settle down at home, he knew there wouldn't be any news at the station, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the last place he wanted to be was at McGinty's with Bernie and Lois Hobson. Last night, he told himself as he deposited scoop after scoop of grinds into the basket of the coffee maker, had been bad enough.

Usually he encouraged closure for families in situations like this, and he would have approved of the Hobson's plans if they'd been for anyone else. He'd never run into a missing person's case like this--disappeared into the lake, deserted a good friend with no explanation--and found a happy ending. Not once in thirty years. There was no logical reason to expect one now. And Lois and Bernie, Lois in particular, just couldn't live with not knowing. He understood all too well. He'd specialized in closing out cases that no one else could, and he had seen the agony of waiting for news, how it never got easier, not after days, weeks, or even years. He'd seen it torture people, and he knew that Lois and Bernie were better off having made up their minds now, so that they could live the rest of their lives in some kind of peace. 

But in spite of his experience, or maybe because of it, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was different. It was like he'd let slip to Fishman yesterday: something about all this wasn't right. They should have found Hobson's body by now. Then there was Marissa, the way she just kept acting stranger and stranger. Gracie Best had told him what he'd suspected, but hadn't quite articulated to himself, that Marissa was the most likely, out of all of them, to be right about this. She'd been right about Fishman being on the Rosario's boat, and this one beat that for spooky by at least a factor of ten. He'd gone through all this in his head the night before, sitting alone at the bar after everyone else had left, trying to hold onto his sanity with the help of the solitude, the dark, and a Scotch. But something in the bar had felt wrong, too. And then Lois had interrupted his reverie when she came down from the loft looking for something to help her sleep. He'd offered to make her a nightcap, and managed to screw it all up. 

"I never wanted to do this, Marion," she'd confessed softly. "Parents shouldn't have to bury their children. And there's not even anything--" She gulped the brandy as soon as he handed it over. 

He nodded silently so she wouldn't have to finish. And then, his tongue loosened by exhaustion as much as by the Glenlivet, he muttered what he'd been thinking all evening. "I just get the feeling there's something we're not seeing."

Lois sat straight up on the stool, eyes burning holes right into his cheeks. "My son. We're not seeing my son, Marion. You found him once. Can't you find him this time?"

That left him feeling about two inches tall, and he'd had no answer for her. As it turned out, he hadn't needed one.

"Lo?" Bernie had wandered back into the bar, unnoticed by either of them. "C'mon, hon, let's go to bed. You know I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, honey." The raw emotion on his face was more, Crumb was sure, than the man had ever let anyone see. 

"Then you shouldn't have said it." Lois didn't sound angry or defiant or much of anything. Whatever they'd fought about, it hadn't been the real problem.

"You're right," Bernie told her gently. "You're always right." He put an arm around his wife, pried the drink out of her fingers, and helped her off the stool. They shuffled toward the office like they were twenty years older all of a sudden. Inside, Crumb knew, they were. 

"I want this to end, Bernie. One way or another, it has to end."

"It will. Two days, remember? Two more days, and we can--" Bernie stared back at Crumb for a minute, swallowing hard, then told his wife, "We can say goodbye."

Crumb offered a grimace of sympathy, then watched them move away. He left most of his drink on the counter. There wasn't enough of the stuff in the world to make this right, or to make him believe that this _was_ right, he realized with a start. He'd had to tell parents that this was the right thing more than once, but this time, this time he couldn't be part of it. He couldn't--

He couldn't believe it.

The thought had been enough to drive him out of the bar and home to a night of restless sleep, running in his dreams from the criminals he'd always caught before. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, that thought was the reason he was standing in Marissa Clark's kitchen making sludgy coffee, getting powdered sugar all over his fingers as he arranged the donuts on a ceramic plate, and vowing to deck Fishman at the first sign of a cop/donut joke. 

He was looking for something he wasn't able to see. Why the hell he thought--no, felt--like it was here, now, he had no idea. Maybe it was what Gracie Best had said yesterday afternoon, eyebrows lifted over the rim of her teacup: "I'm sure, Marion, that you had to have faith in something in order to do the job you did all those years. Whatever you called it, whatever you placed your faith in, it can't be all that different from what those young people need to believe right now. Besides," she'd added, in a voice that dared him to disagree with her, "they might be right."

But doing his job had been different than this. Back then his faith, what little he'd had, had been mostly in his wife. When Evelyn had died, he'd thought, for a long time, that faith had left with her. He'd become cynical and hard as nails because it was easier. And then he'd met Hobson, and he'd only recently started to realize how much the little jaunts into Ripley's territory that had resulted from that meeting had changed him.

He was trying to imagine what Evelyn would say about all this when he heard a light tread on the stairs. Hastily filling the coffee pot with water, he poured about half of it into the reservoir before he realized he'd already turned the damned thing on; hot coffee was dripping out onto the counter at a good clip. Swearing under his breath, he managed to set it up right the second time. He was wiping up the last of the spill when Marissa entered.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, and for a moment he wondered if she could smell his confusion. 

"Sure. I just wanted the coffee to be, you know, fresh, when you got down here." It wouldn't have convinced a wet-behind-the-ears Assistant DA's intern, but she let it pass with a lift of her eyebrow. 

"Chuck will be down in a little bit. He said something about not wanting raw eggs for breakfast this time."

"Huh." Crumb watched Marissa move confidently to the cupboard by the back door and refill Spike's food dish. She'd pulled her hair back into a clip of some kind and changed into a long knit skirt and a sweater, but she hadn't put on any makeup, and the overall look didn't give the fastidious impression that Marissa usually achieved. Her face was drawn in tense lines and sharp angles. They were all unraveling, he thought, bit by bit. "That's a nice, uh, skirt."

"Thanks." Her mouth twisted into a wry smile, Marissa sniffed at the coffee pot, then went to the refrigerator for milk. "How much did you put in there?"

"A few scoops. Big ones." 

"Better get the sugar out, too, then. Do you want anything else? Eggs?"

"Nah."

They were tap dancing, neither one of them saying what was on their minds. As she passed the phone, she reached toward the receiver, then pulled her hand back with a firm little shake of her head. Crumb was dying to know what was going on, but he couldn't ask what he really wanted to know. Yesterday, that stuff with the long-hairs, they'd seemed so excited, but was that just a dried-up lead? He didn't know how to ask. 

Marissa must have known. She stopped halfway between the refrigerator and the table, fingers clenched around the milk bottle, and swallowed hard before she spoke. "It's not that I'm not glad that you came, but why are you really here?" 

Caught, he gaped at her. This was it. Once he told her he wanted in on this, there would be no going back.

Her forehead crinkled into worried furrows. "Is there some kind of news?"

"No." Quick as he could, Crumb stepped closer and touched her elbow. The milk jug was shaking. "No, there's not. Sit down, okay?" He pulled out a chair with one hand, led her to it with the other. "Nothing happened that I know about."

Marissa let out a long, slow breath and leaned into his hand for a moment before she sat, still gripping the milk for dear life. "I didn't think there would be--but you've been acting so--so different."

There he went again, screwing things up. The coffee was finished, so he poured a cupful and brought it to the table. "Trade ya," he offered, taking the milk out of her stiff fingers and scooting the mug closer to the elbow she had propped on the table. She reached for it but didn't drink, just wrapped her hand around it. He didn't understand her relief. What did she think might have happened? 

The first lashes of rain hit the windows as he poured his own coffee and joined Marissa at the table, watching her cautiously add milk to the thick, dark stuff he'd always needed to get himself going in the morning. She was waiting, he realized, and he wasn't sure for what, but since it might be him, he decided it was time to confess.

"Look, to tell the truth, I came to ask you the same thing," he finally admitted, but more to the coffee than to Marissa. Whether she could see him or not, it was hard to look at her while he said it. "Whether you'd heard anything, any news about Hobson. From, you know, those people yesterday, or--or anything--anywhere else." There, he'd said it. Gracie would have been proud.

But it still sounded pretty damned bizarre.

Her mouth opened and shut twice. "No, there's really nothing."

Crumb leaned closer. "Except?"

"It's strange, but--"

"It's Hobson. What isn't strange about him?" he asked with a snort. For a moment he heaviness in the air lifted, and everything was normal. 

Marissa chewed on her lip, and then seemed to come to a decision. "How much attention were you paying yesterday to what Josh and Betsy were saying?"

Crumb drew in a deep breath, knowing that whatever he was going to hear now would be exactly the opposite of what he wanted to deal with. But he'd brought it on himself, hadn't he? "Enough."

"Well, they found--in that book Kelyn brought us--"

The phone rang, and they both jumped.  


* * *

  
_That was good. Very, very stupid of you, but good._  
~ Neil Gaiman

Maybe it was a couple years' practice with last-minute saves, but more likely it was instinct born of desperation: Gary's forward dive was unplanned and perfectly timed. 

He was in mid-air as Cat's tail flashed into the darkness of the well, and though he missed that, he caught a handful of the rope they'd tied to its leg. The rough twine ripped into his palms and he went head first over the lip of the well, the rocks thumping into his gut. Aided by the stone, Cat, and momentum, gravity carried him down, and would have won the split-second tug of war if it had had only Gary to contend with. His sole thought was to hold onto the rope burning his hands, to hold onto Cat no matter what the cost.

Luckily, someone else held onto him.

Hands, he realized through the nauseating rush down, and then back up and over. There were hands on his vest and belt. They pulled him out of the well, down to the ground. The world spun, black and red at the edges of packed earth, brown rocks, and feline fur. He anchored himself by gathering Cat into his arms with the tangle of rope, and blinked into Fergus's pale face, staring down at him in abject astonishment. Breathe, he thought, recalling the last time Fergus had pulled him out of watery trouble; don't forget to breathe. It hurt. Morgelyn knelt next to him, her eyes wide, still clutching the back of his vest. He pulled the rope off Cat's leg with a shaking hand.

"That must be quite a cat," Fergus growled through clenched teeth. "I hope it is worth our lives." 

"Wha--" Gasping for air, for meaning, because he didn't fully understand what he'd done, he could feel the incredulous, hostile stares coming from the other side of the well, even though he couldn't see them. This lull was only going to last another second or two, and he knew it, knew he'd exposed them all. But what else could he have done? As usual, Cat wasn't giving any answers; it snuggled up against his chest as though it had always been his bosom companion and not his tormentor. Morgelyn tugged at his vest, and he struggled awkwardly to his feet. Together, the three of them faced the malevolent little group across the well.

There was just a handful of men, Gary saw; not as many as he'd thought before. Five or six, all dirty and all clearly drunk. The one who'd tied the stone onto the rope had a hand up on Simon's shoulder to hold himself steady. Even though he stood a few yards away, Gary could smell the alcohol on their breath. These guys had probably been drinking all night, if not longer. They had reason to, after what they'd done, Gary thought darkly.

On a good day, and with Fergus's help, he probably would have been able to take them. But this wasn't a good day, and a fight wasn't going to fix this situation at all. 

"Why?" Gary asked, as if they were reasonable people who'd give him a logical answer. "It's only a cat." It was one of the biggest lies he'd ever told, but these men wouldn't, couldn't know that.

The short, filthy man next to Simon gave a bark of a laugh. "Kill the witch's familiar, and we break her curse." He spat in Gary's general direction. "Never thought it would bring her back from the dead."

His red hair tousled and standing on end, Simon glared at them through narrowed eyes. "She never was dead. But we all thought you'd run away, Morgelyn. It seems you are not as smart as I thought."

"Flew out of the cellar on the smoke, is what I heard." A man with a shaggy brown beard tottered into one of his companions. He seemed amused, adding with a malicious chuckle, "Looks like she took her friend there along for the ride."

"Perhaps she came back for revenge." A tall man, whose grimy hair might once have been blonde, remained a step behind the others. He actually did look frightened.

Morgelyn's breath came harder, and her knuckles pressed into his back. He wondered what he'd do if any of these guys actually made a move with his arms full of Cat and his vest clutched so tightly from behind that it was impairing his ability to breathe. Fergus whispered something, but Gary couldn't tell what he was saying.

"We should have tossed you on the Midsummer's bonfire when we had the chance," Simon went on, relentless, moving closer by fractions of an inch. "All of you."

"...ackaway, backaway, back away..." Fergus's whisper grew more pronounced and urgent, but Gary couldn't move. There was nowhere to back away to but the woodpile.

Simon took another step closer. "What say we do it right this time? We will start with the cat." Grunts of assent, crooked grins, and one loud belch were the responses on his side.

"No, now, look." Gary held out one hand. "You don't want to--"

"Papa!" The cry came from the gaggle of children huddled off to the side. One little girl came running on bare feet. "Why were you playing with Morgelyn's new kitty?"

"Tamsyn?" Morgelyn's grip tightened until Gary thought she'd rip his vest. "She mustn't see this."

"Get back, girl!" Simon snapped, and Tamsyn skidded to a halt a few yards from Gary. The child was barely recognizable as the same one who'd run to them two days ago for protection from her brother's teasing. Her hair was a nest of tangles, her clothes were dirty and quite possibly backwards, and her face was streaked with dirt. 

"Morgelyn, they said that you are--" Tamsyn's tiny voice carried through the suddenly still air as she pointed at the other children. "--that you made everybody sick. My mama is sick."

Morgelyn finally let go of Gary's vest; she took a step closer to the little girl, but stopped when Fergus hissed, "No!"

"It's all right, Fergus. Tamsyn, I did not make your mama sick." She turned a pleading look to the men who glowered back at her. "All of you know I would not do that. I am no witch and I would never, ever try to hurt you. This is my home. The fact that I am here, that we came back, should be proof enough that we are innocent."

Simon cut her off with a sneer. "I think that the fact that you stand here, instead locked up where you belong, with this worthless peddler and a stranger who jumped into a well to save a cat, is proof enough of your witchcraft." He was closer than ever, nearly half way around the well, his companions a few steps behind. "Father Malcolm said we had to wait for a confession before we burned you, but I am convinced we will be doing God's work if we go ahead right now. What do you say, lads?"

"No, this is not right--" Morgelyn's desperate gaze skittered across the half-dozen men and back to Gary, who felt sick even though his stomach was nearly empty. He had seen--had felt--this kind of hatred before: in a camp full of white supremacists; in Daniel Sullivan's tavern; during a blackout in his own neighborhood; and, just a few days ago, in a sedate suburban cul-de-sac. But never, never with this kind of intensity. What had he done, what had he ever said, that had helped before--or could possibly help now? He groped for answers and drew a terrifying blank, but he tried anyway.

"You've got it all wrong. She's not the one who's making the trouble here." Gary took a step forward, putting himself as squarely as he could between the men and his friends, but the little girl slipped in front of him. 

"Papa?" squeaked Tamsyn, who, with her child's one-track mind, was still focused on Cat. "If the kitty does not make people sick, why can't I play with it?" 

Right on cue, Cat squirmed until Gary loosened his grip, then jumped at Morgelyn. Gasping in surprise, she caught it; it curled into her arms, arching its back and hissing in Simon's direction. Tamsyn skipped over and stood next to Morgelyn, head tilted up so she could watch Cat. "I want to play with the kitty!"

Her father didn't even appear to hear Tamsyn; he ignored her while he lumbered around the well, supporting himself with one hand on the loose rocks at its rim. "It is your familiar, is it not? Did that man of Lady Nessa's find out all yer secrets?" His eyes were fixed on Morgelyn. "I wager he has ways of making witches squirm. Maybe even scream."

Fergus had stepped up to Gary's side, and he was reaching for the knife at his belt. "You will show respect, Simon, or I will--"

"Hold on a minute!" Gary spread his hands wide. This was starting to feel like High Noon, a few centuries too early. "You don't know what you're talking about. She's not a witch!" 

"And wha'are you, stranger?" slurred the short man who was trying, and utterly failing, to look as threatening as Simon. "Do no' think we've forgotten wha--what happened yesserday."

Gary wondered if this bunch had enough brain cells left between them to remember anything. "I was just trying to stop you from making a mistake, same as I'm doing now."

"He should be the first to burn," suggested the tall, scared-looking one.

"I told you, we're startin' with the cat," Simon snarled.

"No, papa! Don't hurt the nice kitty." Tamsyn turned to Morgelyn, half-petulant, half-hopeful innocence, her arms outstretched. Cat extended a paw in her direction. "Let me play with it."

"That is not an animal to play with, child. It is an evil thing." 

Confusion playing across her face, Tamsyn put two fingers in her mouth and looked from her father to Morgelyn.

"It's my cat," Gary said quietly, "and it's just a cat." He took a step back, shifting sideways so that he could keep an eye on everyone at once, his friends and his not-friends. Fergus held the knife with one hand and Morgelyn's sleeve with the other; he was pulling her back, slow step by slow step. Morgelyn clutched Cat to her as if it were a shield, and Tamsyn followed. 

"You look funny," she told Morgelyn, and tilted her head. "What happened to your face?"

"Tamsyn," Morgelyn choked, blinking hard, "go back home, please." The look she shot Gary was terrified. They should all go back home, he thought, and the Dragon's Eye tingled against his skin.

"This is getting us nowhere," he said, turning back toward the group of men. Were they standing straighter now that they'd seen fear in their prey, or was that just Gary's imagination? Something had changed. The glints in their eyes were stronger; they looked, collectively, as though they were on the verge of sobering up. "We can talk about this like civilized adults, if you'd just open your eyes and see what's really going on here." He could almost feel the air harden as their jaws stiffened, but he kept going, talking directly to Simon, the leader for some unfathomable reason. "Morgelyn hasn't done anything. You've been led to believe it because someone else wants you to."

"He's right." Fergus's eyes were wide. When he shot a questioning glance Gary's way, Gary managed a barely-perceptible nod, and Fergus stepped forward. "It is Lady Nessa, trying to--"

A sharp pain exploded through Gary's left shoulder, and a rock tumbled to the ground near his feet. He spun back around, gripping the wounded spot. It didn't hurt as much as, say, a club wielded at close range, but on top of all his other injuries, it stung like hell. All of a sudden, all the crazy guys had rocks. When had they found the presence of mind to arm themselves? Arm themselves against him, against his friends. This was pure insanity.

"No, stop!" Morgelyn's cry was cut off when Fergus pulled her down to the ground, out of the way of another stony missile. Cat jumped free, its screeches carrying over the burst of noise that came next--yelling and the thudding of rocks in the ground and oh hell, Gary thought, oh shit whatthehellwashesupposedtodonow--

Trying to scramble to his friends, he tripped just under another stone; it sailed past him and caught Tamsyn squarely on the temple. Her scream was barely audible with the rocks pelting down around them like rain.

"The church!" Fergus yelled, hauling Morgelyn up and heading for the path behind them. "Hurry, Gary. Run!"

But Tamsyn sat within arm's reach of Gary, clutching her head and wailing like a banshee. Blood trickled out between her fingers and he couldn't just leave her there. Morgelyn pulled away from Fergus, trying to get back to her, oblivious to the rocks that bounced off her back as she ducked her way forward. Their aim was getting better, and they were gathering more rocks from the ground in some weird ballet of hatred, still so drunk that they couldn't do anything gracefully. One lost his balance and toppled into another. They cursed and fell together, distracting the others for a few precious seconds. 

"Gary!" Fergus motioned frantically toward the church, and Cat streaked by him on its way up the path. 

He scooped Tamsyn up in his arms and pushed Morgelyn ahead of him, and then the rocks stormed down around them again. They stumbled toward the top of the hill where Fergus was struggling with the church door. The ground kept slipping out from under Gary's feet. He tried to shield Tamsyn, pushing her face into his shoulder; tried to keep himself between Morgelyn and the rain of rocks that stung his back; tried to ignore the ground-shaking footsteps behind him and the angry, ugly, incoherent shouts and curses. Simon Elders was the loudest of all, screaming, "The witch is taking my child!"

Gary didn't dare put Tamsyn down. She'd be trampled or stoned, and she was clinging to him like an octopus. He'd never pry her off before one of them got clonked on the head. Their aim worsened as the men followed their prey. Angry or not, they were still too drunk to manage both the steep hill and the rock throwing. A few, Gary saw with a last glance over his shoulder, had skidded back down the hill and were hefting logs from the wood pile. He swore under his breath and followed Fergus's frantic urging through the church door, stumbling in behind Morgelyn while Tamsyn, sobbing, clutched his neck and kicked the Dragon's Eye into his side. He fell to his knees, barely able to draw breath. Fergus slammed the double doors shut, lifted a thick plank and dropped it into the iron holders to bar the way, and leaned his forehead against the wood. 

Gary caught Fergus's eye. "Sanctuary?" he asked between pants. 

Fergus nodded. "For how long, I am not sure. They have murder in their hearts." 

His statement was punctuated by a series of shuddering blows against the door. Fergus jumped away, but the doors held. "Even in here, I fear they will kill us."

Tamsyn shook her head against Gary's neck. "'Tis only my papa." Poor kid. How much of this did she understand?

Fergus dropped his pack to the ground and pulled the harness holding the jug off his shoulders. "All for this," he muttered, but even though he gave the heavy container a disgusted look, he set it down carefully on the packed-earth floor. The door continued to shudder under random blows while Fergus paced the length of the little church. There were no pews, Gary noticed in surprise, just a bunch of pillars to hold up the stone walls and the tiled roof. "You should have left her out there. Now Simon thinks we have abducted his child."

"She would have been killed if he had left her." Morgelyn's voice was strident; she jumped every time the doors took a blow. Kneeling at Gary's side, she smoothed the little girl's unruly hair. "Tamsyn, sweetling, let me see."

Tamsyn lifted her head, and her death grip eased. Gary pried her arms off his neck and set her down among the rushes and flower petals that covered the floor. "Papa is only grumpy because Mama's--owie!" Tamsyn yelped when Morgelyn pulled strands of hair from the congealing blood on her forehead. Her lower lip trembled. "Who threw those rocks? Was it James and his friends? Papa will scold them."

"Your papa--" Fergus began angrily.

"Stop." Morgelyn's command was calm, but the look she shot her friend was enough to quiet him. She turned back to Tamsyn, pulling the pouch from her belt and sifting through it. Fergus pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and didn't say any more.

Gary stood on wobbly legs and ventured a look around the church, hoping for another way out, one that wouldn't lead them past the mob. There was no other door. At the front of the room, a table with two thick candles and a crucifix marked the altar. One window was stained glass, a picture of Noah and the ark. The only man-made color Gary had seen in the architecture of the village was startling in its brightness. The rest of the windows were merely slits in the stone walls to let in some light and air. And maybe other things, like rocky missiles, arrows, and flaming torches, Gary thought with a shudder. The pounding on the door stopped for a few minutes, then picked up again, louder and more insistent. 

"I told you this was a bad idea." Fergus was beyond peeved; he was scared. "You had to go rescue the cat, didn't you?" 

Gary exchanged a glance with Cat, who sat smack in the middle of the floor, perfectly at home. "Yeah, I did," he said quietly.

"So much for your plans. Look where your affection for that creature has landed us."

"Better the church--" Morgelyn pulled a couple of chewed-up leaves out of her mouth. "--than the wood pile. Hold still, child." Squirming in Morgelyn's lap, Tamsyn pouted. Morgelyn applied the makeshift poultice, a bright green plaster, to the cut on the little girl's forehead. 

Fergus paced off again, muttering about the relative worth of cats and children. "Uh, is that--?" Gary began tentatively.

Morgelyn spat out little bits of leaves. "What?"

"Sanitary?" he tried, but she shook her head, a blank expression on her face.

"It works," she told him simply. And it did; the bleeding had already stopped. Satisfied, Morgelyn wrapped an arm around Tamsyn's shoulders. "Stop scolding Gary," she continued with a pointed glance at Fergus. "He stood between us and all those rocks." Her voice faltered and she hugged Tamsyn closer. 

"And they are still out there, just beyond the door," Fergus snapped, echoing Gary's thoughts. "One step outside and they will try to tear us apart with their bare hands. What do we do now?" 

"We've got to get out of here," Gary muttered. "Nobody'll listen to us, at least those guys won't." What about everyone else, though? What if they could convince the rest of the town? But first they'd have to get past the men out there, and Fergus was right; he'd blown their chance to sneak in and rally support. But he couldn't have let Cat go down the well. His head pounded in time to the blows to the door. He shut his eyes and leaned against one of the stone pillars.

"Are you all right?" Morgelyn approached him with a look of concern. She held out her hand, as if she were about to put some kind of plaster on him, too. Tamsyn scurried along behind her, clutching at her skirt. "Gary?"

"Yeah, I just--I'm tired," he said, and that truth came from somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. He _was_ tired. Tired of the way people treated each other around here. In Chicago. Everywhere, damn it. And tired of the way it led to disaster.

"When does it end?" Morgelyn asked in a whisper.

"Now. Here." He sighed. "Somehow."


	22. Chapter 22

_What can books of men that wive  
In a dragon-guarded land...  
Do, but awake a hope to live  
That had gone  
With the dragons?_  
~ W. B. Yeats

"Josh, slow down." Marissa held out a hand, as if he could see her signal to stop and let her catch up. She leaned back against the small, stand-alone cupboard that held the telephone. "For heaven's sake, take a breath."

"I can't. I hardly know how. This _so_ doesn't happen."

Preceded by a waft of overpriced after shave, Chuck walked into the kitchen and tapped her on the shoulder. "What's up?" 

She shook her head, turning her hand up in a "you got me" gesture. Josh Gardner had been babbling for several minutes now, and all she knew was that he didn't believe what he was telling her. She had yet to figure out exactly what that was. 

"Start from the beginning," she tried, pulling, from a nearly-empty reserve, the same steady voice she used when Gary was freaking out about the paper.

"Okay, remember last night? I called you and asked what you remembered? Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"I mean, do you remember what you said you remembered?"

When exactly had she followed the White Rabbit down its hole? "Yes. It was what your friend translated for us from Kelyn's book at McGinty's. About a woman who was--" Marissa gripped the countertop, and a nick in the edge cut into her palm. "You said she was executed for witchcraft."

"Uh-huh. And then?"

"And then you called late last night and said there was someone else." Repeating it was horrible, but she had to get a grip. Saying it wouldn't make it happen. "You said that now there was a man with her, and he was killed, too."

Behind her, she could hear Crumb asking Chuck something, quiet but insistent. "I don't know," Chuck snapped, and silverware rattled on the table.

"Josh, what's happened, please?"

His breath was shaky in her ear. "Last night, everyone was kind of fuzzy about the whole thing. But this morning, no one, not here, not at Oxford, _nobody_ who's familiar with the story in that book remembers it the way it's always been. Or that you're telling me we told you it's always been." Bewildered and honest, he sounded like a little kid instead of a competent archaeologist. Even though Marissa was confused too, and frightened at a level she couldn't let herself feel just yet, her heart went out to him. 

"It is what you told me. I promise, I haven't forgotten." It sounded so familiar. How many times had she heard Gary say it? 

_"It changed, Marissa; the story's not the same...we must have done something that changed it."_

"You're just about the only one who hasn't," Josh was saying. "Me, I'm not quite sure. I mean, talking to you now, I am, but I was starting to think that it didn't happen that way. Even Betsy, who knows the story better than me--better than most people in the world--was trying to tell me a few minutes ago that it had always been this way, and not the first way she told us. And then she got this confused look on her face and backed off. Neither one of us trusts what we remember. Every time I read it, what I remember gets farther away from what you're telling me it was. But I don't think you're wrong. I just think you're closer to the source."

"The source?"

"Of whatever's changing this."

"You think history is changing?" Crumb's coughing fit startled Marissa; she jumped away from the counter. There was a thumping sound, and Chuck asked if Crumb was okay.

"Betsy thinks I'm nuts, but Occam's Razor, you know? The simplest explanation is the best. The story's changing because the events themselves are changing, even though they're in the past."

Marissa twisted the phone cord in her fingers, remembering Chuck's outburst the night before. "But then why do some of us know they haven't always been this way?"

"Maybe it's like a pebble in the pond. The farther out the rings are, the less the effect, but we're pretty close to the center, and you and your friend, you were at ground zero." Josh's voice rose as he warmed to his theory. "The ripples are our record of something changing, but farther out, they're fainter, even though the pond has changed for them, too, just not in such an important way as it did right where the rock fell."

She had to choose her words carefully, because he was getting close to the truth she knew had happened last spring, when Gary had come back smelling of century-old smoke, and to the truth she suspected was happening right now. "It's an interesting image, but what makes you think someone could go back and change the past?"

"Probably lack of sleep," he said with a snort.

"I got plenty of sleep, and I'm with you so far." The two men at the table had fallen silent, and the tension in the room was thicker than jelly donut filling.

"If you go with what the people who made that crystal ball, the Dragon's Eye, believed, it actually does make sense, just not the kind of sense we're used to now. Have you paid any attention to the shape of its base?"

"The knots," Marissa said, "the metal, it's in strands, and they weave in and out to make the pattern."

"Right, and that means more than a nice, symmetrical kind of design. It's supposed to signify eternity, because the Celts didn't see time as a straight line. It was a circle that looped back on itself. Memories and stories weren't just entertainment. They were points of intersection, where the present touched the past in a very real way."

"I do understand that," Marissa told him, thinking of her grandmother's quilt. 

"It's not all that different from what some quantum physicists theorize about time. I don't understand much of the math, but even Einstein thought time might be able to curve. For the Celts, eternity was a knot, and it's always going somewhere new. It doesn't repeat itself, but sometimes the threads intersect, and if someone was at that juncture," he finished in a relieved rush, "maybe he could shift to a different strand and end up in a different place, timewise." 

"And change what had happened," she finished. Did Josh realize that this was more than just a theory to her? That it was real, that it was happening? She couldn't tell, and she didn't dare ask and break the spell. "Then how would he get back to the thread of his own time?"

Josh hesitated, then admitted, "I have no idea." 

"He'd have to find another intersection." Another point of memory, a place or a space where they all met. "Courage, faith, and clearest sight."

There was silence for a moment. "I might get kicked out of the university for saying it, but it makes perfect sense to me. And one more thing, since I've gone this far--you should know that there are a lot of ancient cultures that connected water with magic. The Celts had sacred wells and streams and they thought that stuff that we would call magic happened there. I just thought, since your friend--well, I thought you should know."

On the counter, her fingers traced the knotwork pattern she'd memorized. Intersections and skipping from strand to strand and Gary coming _home_ somehow.

"Marissa?"

"I'm here."

"I'm going to put Betsy on now, and she'll tell you what the story says, okay? But the other version, if you get a chance and you still can remember--"

"I'll write it down for you."

"I'm not sure I trust what's written down after last night."

"Don't worry," she told him. "I'll remember."

There was a pause, a mumbled conversation on the other end of the line. Though she couldn't hear the words, the general tone was not unlike the one that she and Chuck could generate on one of their more strained days. She pulled the receiver away from her ear and took a deep breath, knowing that she had to steady herself before she heard this. This was Gary, she told herself, and then, once again: but it hasn't happened yet. It won't, he can stop it. We can get him home before--

\--not before. After. After he'd changed it, or tried to.

She caught her breath. The last piece of the pattern, the one she'd been missing all along, fell into place with a dizzying rush. How could she have thought he'd simply been waiting all this time for a way to get home, like a tourist at a taxi stand? Not Gary, who risked his life for strangers all the time; not Gary, who offered help even to those who'd hurt him. If he knew what was going to happen to this woman, to this town, he'd stay. That was why he was there in the first place: to change it. Gary hadn't been waiting for help. He was still there because he wanted to help. 

"Hello?" Betsy's voice was faint with concern and confusion, and Marissa realized that she'd been trying to get her attention for a few moments already.

"I'm here," she managed. But she could barely feel the ground beneath her shoes.

"Hi, Marissa." The excited rush of the day before was gone, and now Betsy just sounded as tired and confused as the rest of them. "Look, whatever Josh just told you, keep in mind that he slept in my office chair last night for a grand total of twenty minutes. Plus, he watched the entire _Quantum Leap_ marathon last month, and I don't think he's been the same since." 

It didn't matter. The logistics and mechanics of how didn't matter anymore. What mattered was why, and how they could help Gary change it. "It's okay," she managed faintly, even though she knew it wasn't. It wasn't okay for Gary, nor for those people over on that other strand of time, in that other place.

_Save us, make haste to help me._

Focus, pay attention. This could be important.

"...so I'm just going to read you what it says because Josh says you need to know. But I don't trust it right now, you know?" Betsy added, almost as if she were talking to herself. "Everything feels sofluid. Okay, here goes." She stopped to clear her throat a couple times while she read, but otherwise there were no interruptions. 

A few moments later, Marissa couldn't recall if she had thanked Betsy, or said good-bye, or said anything at all. She was in the living room, clutching the Dragon's Eye close while the rest of the world spun around her. Coffee and soap and Old Spice and sugary donuts and whatever designer after shave Chuck was wearing...

Dropping onto the couch, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She had to get control, or she wouldn't be able to do anything.

Two sets of footsteps hurried after her, and it was Chuck who asked in a halting voice, "Marissa, what--what is it? What did they say?"

_There once was a free village on the banks of the River Efflam, near the great sea cliffs, where farmers and tradesmen lived in peace and prosperity. In this village there lived a woman whose people came from another place, and left their mark upon her as sure as the old ones left their mark upon this land. Some saw this mark as a curse, and yet in the time of the great trial, when the pestilence raged across the world, the villagers turned to her for her knowledge of herbs and cures._

Was the glass ball warming because of her hands, or because it was somehow coming to life again? She traced a metal strand, and it hit her like a fast stop on the L. 

_On the banks of the River Efflam, near the great sea cliffs...  
Sacred wells and streams where magic happened..._

The conviction came over her with absolute certainty; she knew it the way she knew that Gary was alive and trying to help the victims of that awful story, and she jumped back up. "We have to go to the lake."

"What, now?" Chuck squeaked.

"Now." Nownownownow, her heart insisted. Before it was over, before it was too late, before that hideous story was true, before Gary was lost forever. She started for the foyer, but Chuck grabbed her arm. "We have to go _now_ ," she choked.

"What the hell did he tell you?"

"Josh and Betsy have the paper." 

Chuck let go so abruptly she almost fell. "They what?"

Taking time to explain would nearly kill her, but if she didn't, she'd be all alone again. 

_But once the pestilence had passed, like a shadow leaving its own dire and cruel mark upon the world, the people of her village were blinded by fear. They came to see her as the cause of their troubles, rather than one who had fought with them._

"That book, that's what it is, it's Gary's paper. They didn't have newspapers back then but the story at the end of that book, that's why Gary's there, that's what he has to change. And it says--" She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "We have to go now, Chuck." Spinning on her heel and nearly losing her balance in the process, she started for the foyer, but Chuck was there in front of her somehow, blocking her way. His hand brushed her elbow, but he didn't try to grab her this time.

"Calm down, will ya? This is nuts."

"It isn't nuts, Chuck." What was crazy was mob mentality and witch hunts.

_Cursing her for a witch, they handed her over to a zealot friar, whose torments could not procure a false confession. Though she escaped his clutches and returned to help the villagers, many of whom were now suffering from another illness, they mistook her intent in their anger and fear._

She clutched the Dragon's Eye in tighter, hoping Chuck would see, hoping he'd understand, but he didn't move. "Get out of my way."

"Marissa..." He drawled out the last syllable of her name, the way her older sister used to when she was forced to play little girl games while babysitting.

She set her jaw. She'd always won before, and she wasn't going to lose now, not when it mattered so much that it tore into her chest. She sidestepped him. "I need to get my coat."

"It's raining buckets out there!"

"Then I'll take an umbrella. Spike, come." She lifted the harness from its hook on the wall. Somehow the moments it took to put it on the German Shepherd--one handed, because she refused to let go of the crystal ball--seemed to stretch into a near-eternity. 

" _We_ will take an umbrella," Crumb corrected from somewhere in the living room. "Left my keys in the kitchen, give me a sec." He'd been silent through the entire scene, and heaven only knew what he must think of her after what he'd heard, but still he was ready to play the knight in armor.

Just like Gary.

_And there was with her a man, a stranger whose speech was unfamiliar but whose intent was kind, and when he would not disavow himself of her, and rather tried to be her aide, him too they burned._

Any other time, the thought of Crumb as a gallant knight would have made Marissa smile, but now she had to fight back tears. Her tiny entryway was crowded with Chuck, Spike, and herself, and it was getting hard to breathe. 

_As they had died unshriven, and could not be buried in consecrated ground, the ashes that remained were scattered upon the ocean, lest their spirits disturb the villagers._

"At least tell us what they said," Chuck insisted. 

"On the way. I'll tell you on the way." There were other coats hanging on top of her own. Groping around, she finally found the smooth, tightly-woven fabric of her rain coat and worked it off the coat tree with shaking fingers.

"Do you hear that?" Chuck asked as thunder rolled overhead. "I don't see why we can't do whatever it is right here." 

Marissa would have answered, but her coat, following rules of physics known only to outerwear in times of emotional difficulty, had somehow ended up tangled behind her, attached to the wrong arms. "Damn it--"

"Hold still." Chuck had always had this ability, to fire off barbs and objections that made her want to haul off and smack him, while in the same moment his actions totally belied what he was saying. Now he helped her struggle out of the coat and held it so she could put it on properly, all the while muttering, "Thing worked perfectly well last night. All of a sudden you have to take it to Lake Michigan?"

"What worked last night?" asked Crumb, jingling his keys as he rejoined them.

"I'll explain on the way," she repeated.

"What if I don't want to go?" Chuck kept right on protesting, even though she could hear him sliding into the coat he'd bought a couple days ago. "What if Crumb and I decide we want to act remotely sane?"

"Then I'll take the Red Line to Clark and Division and catch the bus."

"I gave up on sane the minute I started hanging out with the three of youse," Crumb grumbled. He put a hand on Marissa's shoulder. "Let's go."

They ducked out into the rain, Chuck holding an umbrella over their heads. The wind pushed them to Crumb's car, and she climbed into the back seat with Spike. The crystal ball would have fit into one of her oversized pockets, but she kept it in her hands instead.

_This was done not according to the laws of God, but in ignorance and fear. And that it was not God's will that they should do so, was shown when many of the villagers were taken ill and died. Others gave over their land and freedom to the lady of the nearby manor, so that they might receive her protection, but before three summers had passed, the village was no more, and all those who had scorned their own healer and her talent with God's gifts lay in the ground. Their village is already nearly forgotten, but for this tale which I have inscribed, so that others might not repeat the ungodly actions of the villagers of Gwenyllan._

"Hurry," she whispered, pressing her fingers into the metal strands, into the inscription that was the only hope she had left. "Please hurry."  


* * *

  
_Witch burning in the Fourteenth Century was  
completely pointless--discuss._  
~ J. K. Rowling

"I have it!" Fergus stopped just short of the altar, spun around, and hurried back to the others. "We can use the girl as a shield." He gestured at Gary. "You can go in front and hold her. Show them my knife, and tell them that if they grant us safe passage, we will let her go."

"No, Fergus, a thousand times no!" Morgelyn pulled Tamsyn behind her and backed toward the nearest pillar. Gary shook his head, unable to form a coherent response. Even Chuck wouldn't have come up with anything this--this--

"It is wrong," insisted Morgelyn.

"It's insane," Gary added. 

"It will work." Fergus spread his arms wide and smiled, enamored with his brilliant plan. "Simon Elders would not hurt his own child."

Gary wasn't so sure about that. "The man had no problem throwing rocks in her direction a few minutes ago."

"Tamsyn," Morgelyn said in a strangled voice, "go see if you can find where the kitty went to, will you?" The little girl scampered off obligingly, chasing Cat around stone pillars and up and down the length of the church.

Arms crossed over her chest, Morgelyn glared at Fergus. "I will not put that child in more danger."

"There is no danger, not if she is our shield. 'Tis a perfect plan!"

Gary had had enough. "It isn't going to happen, so give it up." In the stony silence that followed, the pounding on the door stopped, and the voices were raised enough for them to catch a few words. Gary distinctly heard "witch", "trapped", and "burn." Lips pursed, Morgelyn huddled into herself.

"Then what is your plan, Dragon Slayer?" Fergus snapped.

Tamsyn skidded to a halt and frowned up at Gary. "Dragons? Are you a knight?"

Shaking his head, wishing for once that he could answer in the affirmative, Gary sighed and glanced at the stained glass window, the only one big enough to offer escape. "We could break it and get out that way."

"No!" Morgelyn looked almost as horrified at his suggestion as she had at Fergus's. "It is a treasure. It has been a part of this village for three generations."

"So has your family, and now this village wants you dead. I say we do it." Fergus began scanning the floor. "Tamsyn, be a good lass and find a rock."

But Tamsyn shook her head. "I like the window."

Fist clenched at her side, Morgelyn looked ready to start swinging. "Destroying God's house is not the way to ask for a miracle."

A miracle, Gary thought, was exactly what they needed, but when he looked for his usual source, there was no sign. "Hey, where's Cat?" He stomped in a circle around the church, trying to ignore the shouting outside as he peered behind pillars and into the darker corners. Nothing.

Tamsyn held her arms out wide. "Kitty's gone."

"Figures," Gary muttered.

They all jumped when the pounding resumed, more rapid and insistent. "In God's name, open this door!"

The three adults stared at each other. Gary gulped. "That was--"

"Father Ezekiel." Morgelyn was halfway to the door when Fergus caught her arm and spun her around.

"You cannot open that door." It was half-plea, half-command. "They will have you in a heartbeat."

"He will not let them harm me, and it is his church."

"It is Father Malcolm's church as well. This could be a trick. They could be forcing him to call us out because they know he is our friend."

"MacEwan!" The gruff voice was so peeved that Gary wondered if Father Ezekiel could somehow have heard Fergus. "Hobson, I know you are lurking in there!"

Twisting out of Fergus's grip, Morgelyn looked at the door, though she didn't go any closer. "I trust him."

"And no one forces that man to do anything he doesn't want to do," said Gary. "I trust him, too, but you--" He put a hand on Morgelyn's shoulder and gently pushed her back a few steps. "Fergus is right to be cautious. I'll get the door, but you stay clear." 

Fergus was only too happy to help, pulling Morgelyn as far away from the door as he could. "Be careful," she whispered, and Gary tried to ignore the way his heart stabbed at the familiar warning. She held out her hand, and Tamsyn took it, all freckles and wide eyes staring back at Gary.

He lifted the heavy wooden plank that barred the door, and stumbled back with it still in hand when one thundering blow pushed the doors wide open. Father Ezekiel stood before him, murderously angry. Behind him were men--many more than just the half dozen who had met them at the well--and women, even a few children. A good portion of the village, Gary guessed. But Simon and his friends were at the forefront, still carrying rocks and thick sticks.

"What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?" the priest demanded.

Gary retreated toward his friends. Robes billowing behind him, Father Ezekiel stalked across the threshold, and the men behind him followed. At the pointed stare the priest directed toward the plank that had barred the door, Gary hastily set it down on the church floor. It lay there like a barrier between them and the motley group now filing into the church.

"We had to come back, Father," Morgelyn pleaded softly.

His scowl softened just a fraction. "What happened to that child?" He pointed at Tamsyn, peeping from behind Morgelyn's skirt.

"They happened," Gary said coldly, nodding at the men behind Ezekiel. 

A sound, perhaps a growl, started deep in the priest's throat. Ignoring Gary, he motioned for Tamsyn to come closer. Morgelyn gave her a gentle shove forward. Tamsyn looked from Simon to Father Ezekiel and hesitated, but when the priest squatted down and beckoned, she walked over to him. Gary tried to read the crowd. The men in front were angry, but behind them most of the faces he could see looked plain old confused.

"Papa was playing with Morgelyn's kitty. Then some bad men started throwing rocks." Tamsyn touched her forehead and flinched dramatically. "It was not a fun game, but the big man brought me here, away from the rocks, so Morgelyn could help me."

"That was a trick! The witch put my child in harm's way. She made that rock hit her!"

Standing up, Father Ezekiel turned his scowl on Simon Elders. "Don't be a fool, man."

"But 'tis true." Simon raised his voice so all could hear. "She would put all our children in danger with her trickery. What is that on Tamsyn's head?"

"It is only yarrow--" Morgelyn began.

"More witchery. Child, wait outside," he told Tamsyn gruffly.

"But Papa--"

"Go have your mother tend to your head."

Tamsyn turned back to Gary. "Can the kitty come too?" 

Simon grabbed her arm and yanked her around. "I have spoken, child. Would you disobey me?"

"No, Papa." Tamsyn's eyes filled with tears, and Simon--it was only a split-second, but Gary thought Simon's fierce scowl softened. He released her arm. 

"Go home," he said with a wave at the crowded doorway.

Tamsyn cast one more look at Morgelyn before she left, scampering between the villagers. Then Father Ezekiel looked around at the men closest to him and said solemnly, "This is the house of God, and as such, it is not a place for violence. Put down your weapons."

Simon pursed his lips, but not a single man among them questioned the priest's authority. All the stones, logs, and planks thudded to the floor.

"You should be thanking us," complained the short, bearded one. "We stopped her just as they would have poisoned the well." 

"Poisoned?" Gary had been thinking things couldn't get any worse, but now the frightened looks of the villagers told him that things had gotten so twisted that any lie, no matter how outrageous, was somehow easier for them to believe than a truth that had been undermined by rumors and misperception. A look of crushed defeat swept across Morgelyn's face.

"The only poison here is in your lies," Fergus snapped.

"Then what is that, peddler?" Simon pointed at the jug at Fergus's feet.

"It is a tonic." Morgelyn's words were just this side of calm, steadied by what Gary knew had to be a hell of an effort. "It is not for the well," she insisted in a louder voice, "but for those who are ill. That is why we came back. People are sick. There was no choice but to help." She held out her unburnt hand, palm up. "Surely you see that."

Father Ezekiel pinned Fergus with his steely stare. "You. Bring it here."

"I tried to make her go, Father, I swear I did," Fergus whispered when he set the jar at Ezekiel's feet. "Neither one of them would listen to me."

Ezekiel sighed, features drooping in defeat, though only the three of them could see it. He had his back to the villagers as he uncorked the jug and sniffed at its contents.

"'Tis tansy and lungwort, and some comfy," Morgelyn explained. "With more time and the right plants, I could have made something better, but at least this might keep the sick alive until we can do more to help them."

"More lies." Simon stabbed a finger at Morgelyn. "Father, I know you have a fondness for the girl, but she is beyond your protection now. You cannot give sanctuary to a witch."

"There is still no proof of witchcraft," Ezekiel said. Gary had been around Crumb enough to know that that particular scowl meant he could go either way; he was weighing his options. If Ezekiel turned on them now, there was little hope left that they'd get out of this alive, let alone unscathed. He'd sacrificed so much to help them the day before, but that had been in secret. As much as Gary wanted to trust him, he wondered how far the guy would go in front of everybody else.

"We do have proof!" Simon ranted. "Yours included. You heard what she said to Mark two days ago."

"I heard her offer to help him, and I heard Mark refuse." Father Ezekiel stepped away from Simon, closer to Gary. His tone was still level, his gaze unerring. "What other reason do you have to believe she is a witch?"

"You have heard the rumors, Father. They said you were there yesterday, that you gave testimony." Heads nodded behind Simon.

They were sunk, Gary thought, well and truly sunk. But then Ezekiel looked from the villagers to Morgelyn and back, never breaking his scowl, and said, "I did no such thing. What I saw yesterday was a young woman, a member of this village--your clan, Simon--hurt and tortured well beyond the limits of what our savior would condone." A murmur ran through the crowd; his voice took on even more command, and he seemed to grow a couple inches taller. "Still she held to her faith and to the truth: she is not what you say she is. I see no devil's work in that. So I ask you again, what proof do you have that this woman is a witch?"

"She has spat curses upon us all!" Simon said, apparently unaffected by Ezekiel's speech. 

"I never did!" Morgelyn stepped forward, her voice strained to the breaking point. "You twisted my words! Why can you not believe that I never meant any harm, not to any of you? What have I ever done that would make you--make all of you--do these things?" 

Gary could feel the crowd's growing unease, and knew they were all on a razor's edge here. If the people started to believe they'd been wrong to listen to Simon and Mark, they might back off--or they might go through with it just to push their guilt away.

"Get back," Fergus hissed between his teeth. He reached for Morgelyn, but she shrugged her arm out of his reach. 

"All you have to do is look at her!" screeched a woman with a lopsided sneer, looking around at the rest of the crowd for approval. "You can see she is not one of us!"

Gary jumped in before he had time to think about it. "The color of her skin has nothing to do with it--it never has before, not when you needed her help, so why--"

"You are right." Simon surprised Gary by interrupting him. His eyes were cold as he turned to the priest. "But Father, whatever you may believe she meant at the fair, Mark Styles is dead. What further proof do you need?" He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are defending her because she has bewitched you as well."

There were gasps from the crowd, and several people crossed themselves. Father Ezekiel rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Morgelyn burst out, "How can any of you believe that Father Ezekiel would allow me to do such a thing, even if I could? Father, please, there has to be some way. Give this tonic to the sick, and you will see." At a sudden movement behind him, she came to a dead stop, her gaze riveted to the back of the crowd. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh, Anna."

Gary frowned, then looked in the same direction and understood why she'd stopped. The villagers were making way for two women, Anna Styles and Lara, Tamsyn's mother. Between them they carried the limp form of a little boy. Tamsyn trailed behind Lara, who was coughing worse than Robert had been the night before. 

"Woman, you should not be here," Simon growled. Lara's eyes were glassy and feverish, and she barely gave her husband a passing glance as they advanced.

"Morgelyn, please." Anna didn't seem to see anyone else in the church. "My boy...they said you were here, and he is worse. Please, help him. And Lara, too." Gary didn't think he'd ever seen such pure desperation. The women stooped awkwardly under their burden. Tolan was unconscious, and Lara swayed like a reed in the wind. "He is all I have left," Anna whispered. "Please."

The entire crowd had fallen silent. Morgelyn started forward. "Lara, what is wrong?" she asked the other woman.

"I told you, my mama is sick," Tamsyn piped up. "I told her you could help her."

"No!" Simon sounded more frightened than angry as he stepped in front of his wife, his face as red as his hair. "Father, you cannot allow her to harm anyone else."

Gary could feel Fergus inching up behind him, but a new commotion at the back of the crowd got his attention instead. He could see a flash of tan robes and bright yellow silk. A whisper spread through the villagers like a gathering breeze, and another aisle opened. "Lady Nessa," someone said reverently, and several people bowed and curtsied. Simon turned from his wife to see what was going on, and Morgelyn slipped behind him. She helped Anna ease Tolan to the floor, feeling his forehead, speaking quiet words to Lara. She didn't see the visitors; didn't hear the low curse that Father Ezekiel muttered or Fergus's sharp intake of breath. But Gary did, and his fists clenched.

"So, even in the house of our Lord you would bring your evil and deception." Banning's accusation rang off the church walls. 

Morgelyn shot up, her eyes wide and terrified. There was a murmur in the crowd that Gary couldn't interpret. He couldn't take his eyes off Banning and, right behind him, Nessa in her saffron finery. He couldn't stop thinking of snakes. Of dragons. 

He was the dragon slayer. He had to do something. 

"Priest," Banning commanded. Gary's gaze swiveled to Father Ezekiel, but there was a movement behind Nessa, and Father Malcolm stepped forward, obsequious and toady as always. "Here is your fallen sinner."

Anna gathered her son into her arms as if to protect him from this new danger. Morgelyn backed away from them, from the crowd, toward Gary--but Lara coughed again, and she hesitated. Gary could see her hands start to shake. 

"Your congregation stands ready to deliver her punishment," Banning continued relentlessly. "What say you?"

Father Malcolm looked around nervously, and his words were laced with false bravado. "I say we let them."

"Malcolm, don't be an idiot," Father Ezekiel spat. His eyes were blazing now, and Gary knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they had at least one ally. Somehow, the thought wasn't as comforting as he'd hoped it would be. It wasn't enough.

"I only want to help." Halfway between safety and the people she wanted to save, Morgelyn stood straight, hands behind her back, the rock that would not be moved, as she had been the day before. Gary's stomach dropped another fathom or two. There was just no way this was going to end well.

"Let them deliver their punishment," Malcolm repeated, more sure of himself as he locked eyes with Ezekiel. Any illusion of amiability between the two priests was gone now.

Banning nodded. "And then we can decide the fate of those she has led astray." 

"Not all the congregation," said a soft voice. Gary realized it came from Lara, who stood with one hand on Anna's shoulder, unsteady but with her head up. 

Banning's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"Not all of us believe that Morgelyn is what you say she is." Lara paused, coughing, and Anna nodded, the two of them small and disheveled but somehow emanating strength. "Some of us want her help," Lara continued, and she held out her hand to Morgelyn. "We need her help. Not all our minds are addled by drink and your elegant patron." 

For a second, Morgelyn stared at her friend as if she didn't quite understand. Then, as some of the fear left her face, she took the hand Lara offered. Gary glanced at Nessa, who kept her face composed in a mask of condescension. She caught him looking at her. The corners of her mouth curved up, but he wouldn't have called it a smile. 

Nearly everyone else up front was gaping at Lara, but Gary noticed a few heads nodding at the back of the crowd. Hope stirred. What if...

"Go home, woman." Simon started toward Lara, but Gary matched his move. He wasn't going to let any of them near Morgelyn. The other man stopped, settled for a scowl and a foreboding tone of voice. "Go back to your sick bed."

"Simon, no, please. She will die," Anna whispered. "Just like Mark did, because he would not take the help Morgelyn offered him. Tolan is still sick," she added, brushing the hair off her son's forehead, "but he lives, at least he lives."

Simon's scowl deepened, but when Lara was overtaken with another coughing fit, bending almost double, Gary thought he caught a moment of hesitation or confusion, something in his expression that wasn't wholly hostile.

"This is ridiculous. You let your women defy you like this?" Banning demanded. 

"Oh, that's priceless, coming from you," Gary shot back. Then he realized what he'd said, and that everyone in the place was now staring at him as if he had two heads. "I--I just meant--" he stammered.

"What did you mean, Gary?" Nessa asked with a smile that sent chills up and down his spine. She was getting exactly what she wanted with this showdown, and she knew it. "You, who have never lived in this place, do you have advice for these good people?"

Gary had no idea what was about to come out of his mouth, but he opened it anyway. Lara had a violent coughing fit that drove her to her knees. He spun and caught her as she collapsed, shivering in his arms. Kneeling amid the straw and rushes, he helped her to sit next to Tolan. Morgelyn was there, wrapping an arm around her friend's shoulders. 

"Morgelyn?" Lara spoke so softly that even Gary could barely hear her. "Tamsyn said that you had a cure with you. I would like to try it."

Morgelyn looked over Gary's head, at Banning, Nessa, Malcolm, Simon, then took a deep breath. She reached for the jar at Father Ezekiel's feet, hesitating only a moment when their eyes met. His lips pursed, then relaxed, his nod barely perceptible. 

Simon growled, "Lara, I forbid it." 

Stifling another hacking cough, the sick woman faced her husband. "You will say I am a woman, and this is not my place. But I do not think we should trust our futures to your drunken ravings. You always lose all sense when you drink."

Banning turned to the crowd, stabbing a finger in Morgelyn's direction. "Do you see how this woman's venom has infected all of you, from the weakest of women to one of your own priests? She must be dealt with!" Gary jumped to his feet, ready to do battle, but no one was moving. They were all watching the drama unfolding beside him.

Lara stared at Simon defiantly. "Morgelyn helped to deliver our children. She saved James and Tamsyn from fevers and the pox. I trust Amalia's granddaughter with my life." As if that settled the matter, she reached for the jug that Morgelyn held out to her. "How much should I drink?"

"None!" Simon shot past Gary, reached in and knocked the jug to the floor; the precious liquid spilled out. With a startled cry, Morgelyn jumped forward, but before she or Gary could reach the jug, Banning lunged toward them. He shoved Morgelyn to the ground and hurled the jar against the stone wall, where it shattered in a shower of potion and pottery.

The silence was broken by Banning's ragged breath. "Thus shall I break you and your cursed hold on this village!"

Face down on the floor, Morgelyn didn't move. "Oh, no," Fergus breathed, and he pushed through the people who stood around him to kneel beside her. Something broke inside Gary, too, at the destruction of their last hope. He didn't care any more about being cautious or talking his way out of it. He cared about a sick kid and a woman who was dying before his eyes and a friend lying there on the floor, cast aside just because she was different. 

"How much?" he shouted at Banning, pushing him back toward Simon with a one-armed shove. "How much is she paying you?" Whirling on Nessa, he demanded, "What's the price for her life--for all of their lives? They're sick. They're _dying_ , and you're willing to let that happen? How could you?"

Father Malcolm sputtered, "Y-you may not speak to the Lady Nessa as if she were a common--"

"She is a common mercenary," Gary finished. "All she cares about is how much she can get from these people. Their land, their work, whatever she can use."

Nessa's laugh was high and cold as sleet, and her eyes glittered. "I've no idea what this stranger is talking about. It is clear that the witch has turned his head. Or perhaps he turned hers." She lifted her chin and addressed the villagers directly. "I remind you that Brother Banning, who is here at my behest to help you all, is a friar, a man of God who is trying to protect you from evil. And there is only one way to rid your village of this curse." 

"Burn the witch!" Banning shouted, and it was as if a switch had been thrown. Chaos erupted in the church. People surged forward, shouting, heedless of anything or anyone in their way. Gary was on his knees, reaching out for Morgelyn and Fergus, when the wave crashed over him.  


* * *

  
_Though hope is frail_  
It's hard to kill.  
~ Stephen Schwartz

"Marissa, this is--"

"Nuts, I know." She'd already heard it a dozen times. She was long past caring. Not even waiting for Crumb and the umbrella, Marissa got out of the car and let Spike lead her across the parking lot. She could hear Chuck panting a little to keep up with her brisk pace through the wind and rain. There was no hesitation once Spike found the path to the pier. 

There was no time for hesitation. She wrapped her free hand around the crystal ball, safe inside her pocket.

"We have to be there," she shouted over another roll of thunder. 

Crumb caught up to them, puffing and trying to get the umbrella over them all. Marissa could tell he was there when the rain stopped pounding on her from overhead, but the wind still blew it into their faces. She was drenched in less than a minute. But it didn't matter. 

"Those people, where Gary is, they're falling apart. They stopped believing in each other. They needed a miracle. And it's like Aunt Gracie said yesterday; miracles happen where there's faith." Already hoarse from shouting over the elements, she paused for a second to turn her face away from a harsh gust of rain. "It's the faith that's the hard part, and that's what we have to give Gary. Our faith, our help. Instead of just pulling him home, we can send him that. And somehow, it will help. I believe it will. I have to believe that."

She had to, because the panic and worry were tearing her apart. It was more than belief, it was sheer certainty. 

"Geez, look at that," Chuck breathed. Both men fell behind Marissa, but she didn't slow her pace. 

"Hey, hold on." Crumb caught up with her; his voice was loaded with worry. "The waves are gonna be up over the pier if they get any bigger."

"The storm will spin itself out. We have to be there." 

"It's dangerous out there," Chuck told her. "And besides, you don't know what to do, do you?"

"We know enough. It's happening right now, can't you feel it?"

"All I feel is wet and cold," Crumb grumbled. 

"We need to be nearer to the water," Marissa insisted. "I think that somehow that makes it easier to make contact and--oh!" She stopped, arrested by the sudden warmth of the crystal ball. She pulled it out of her pocket and a tidal wave of emotion rocked her back on her heels--panic and fear and ohmygodgaryintrouble, worse than before--

"What is it? Marissa?" 

There was no way to answer Chuck, no breath for a reply. It caught her in the gut and wouldn't let go and she bent over double, Crumb's firm grip on her arm the only thing that kept her from falling. 

She didn't know how she knew it, but she did. Everything was falling apart; her heart pushed against her rib cage like the waves pushing against the shore, wearing it down. It was too much for her, too much for Gary, too much for any one person to bear. "Chuck?" she gasped. "I can't do this alone, it's too much, he's in trouble." Chuck put one hand under hers on the scrying glass and the other on her back, while Crumb anchored her arm. 

"You gotta tell me what's wrong, right now." Crumb's voice was urgent with worry. "Marissa, what's--" He broke off abruptly. 

"Oh, my God," Chuck whispered. "It's doing it again."

"What the hell is that?" Crumb's voice rose into a register she'd never thought he could manage. The warmth was flooding all through and around her, and she knew they could see the lights and colors Gary had tried to describe that first day, when they'd stood just a few yards from here and he'd vanished.

"It's Gary," she said simply, and the fear let up just a little, a wave receding back out to sea to gather its strength. "We have to go out there." Through a force of will she hadn't known she possessed, she made herself straighten up, put one foot in front of the other, and go forward. 

Chuck steered her onto the pier with a fierce grip on her arm. Crumb was there, too, trying to keep the hapless umbrella over their heads. The wind got stronger as they left the shelter of the trees; damp leaves and rain blew over their feet. Spike resisted going forward, but she pulled at his harness until he moved along with her. Out on the pier, the sheer power of the storm was even more evident. Wild, elemental, it was a force in its own right. She'd never stood in the heart of something like this. 

"This is far enough," Crumb insisted. She knew, even though the weather had her all turned around, that it was close to where Gary had fallen in, close to where everything had started. Where the past and present had intersected. "What now?" he asked.

Follow your heart, she'd always told Gary. Okay. Dropping Spike's harness, she lifted the scrying glass out in front of her with both hands. Spike whined and pressed closer, but she only felt his bulk against her leg as a momentary presence, and then it slipped away. It was like meditating, like praying. The wind swept off the lake and drove the rain into their faces, but they were there, they were all there, together, and they would not be moved.

She drew in a deep breath, and had to hold it against nervous laughter when Crumb muttered, "I knew we'd get around to a séance eventually."

"We're standing at an intersection. Somehow times and places are connected here." Despite the way that they were huddled together, trying to keep the worst of the storm at bay, Marissa had to shout over the wind and crashing waves. The rain was threatening to wash away her tenuous grasp on the thread of reason and sense that ran through all this. "We're on the pier." She stomped with her thick-heeled boot to emphasize her point, to remind herself. "The pier is in Lake Michigan. The Great Lakes run to the St. Lawrence River and out into the sea and across the ocean. They're connected. And time intersects itself because it's not a straight line, and that's what happened to Gary. We can help him--no," she corrected herself, "We can help all of them. I believe that."

"But how?"

"Just like last night, Chuck," she said. "We have to do it together."

"Do what?" Crumb wanted to know.

This was the part that was harder to explain, and she prayed for the right words. "When Gary goes to help someone, he just has himself. He doesn't have super powers, just the need to help. And sometimes, when things are really difficult, he's had--he's had us--"

"Backing him up," Chuck finished.

She nodded. "And you too, Crumb. You might not always have understood, but when the chips were down you have always come through for Gary."

"Well, the three of youse have gotten pretty damned good at talking me into it," he acknowledged gruffly. 

It had to be more than that, though; for this to work she had to make him understand his true stake in all of this. "Crumb, why are you here?"

"Aw, hell, Marissa."

"There isn't time to be embarrassed," she pleaded. "Just tell me why you're here."

"I've seen a lot of things over the years. I've had some good friends. But youse guys--" A clap of thunder cut him off.

"Yeah?" Chuck prompted.

"Look, I do not fully understand what the hell is up with Hobson and his newspaper. Alls I know is, given what he seems to do, I'd think a couple good friends'd be worth more than X-ray vision or something like that."

Marissa was about to respond, but then she felt it happening again, the wave of conviction and fear coming closer, about to overwhelm her. "Chuck, hold on, please. Crumb--" It was going to be on top of them any second. The wind rocked the ball in her hand. "You _know_ Gary, better than you think, better than you'll admit. You said last night that he reminded you of a younger version of yourself. Please."

"Okay, okay! How?" 

"He needs all of us." It wasn't rainwater she was choking on now. "I know I've asked a lot of you, both of you, these past few days. But if you could just believe, if you could give me your faith, give Gary your faith, through this, I know we can help him. Please," she finished as another gust lashed sheets of rain against them. "It's Gary." There was a moment of silence, and it was too much, too heavy. Her arms started to sag.

"It's Gary," Chuck echoed, and grabbed her hand, lifting it back up. "C'mon, Crumb."

"Aw, hell," Crumb grumbled, but he too put a hand on the crystal ball. 

What came next was stronger than in the lab, where the world had fallen away from her; more bearable than on the bench, when she'd been all by herself. It wasn't even like the night before, with Chuck in her kitchen. It was a charge in the atmosphere, and Crumb's low whistle of astonishment. It was Chuck saying, "It's happening, but--wow, this is like a million times more than last night," and Spike's excited woof. The warmth spreading through her, warming them all in spite of the rain and the wind. There was a power there that she'd only felt in the wildest moments of faith and song and prayer, and yet it was somehow more and different, a sense of someone with them, of real connection. Chuck was supporting her and Gary, and Crumb was grounding all of them, and they were together.

All of them.

The familiar scent of worn leather and deodorant soap and Gary through the wet leaves and fishy lake washed over her.

"It is Gary," Chuck breathed. "I can--it's like he's here--Marissa, you should see all this light."

"Holy shit," Crumb muttered. 

Everything solid dissolved away, and there was only this--the water and the rain, the connection to her friends, and, beyond that, to something larger than them all, and to the need to help.

She gathered up her faith and all the hope she'd mustered over the past awful days and let it come through her, through her hands, into the warmth and the light that she knew they held, into the lives that were somehow, through some miracle, connected to their own.

"Gary," she said, "we're with you."


	23. Chapter 23

_Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore, we must be  
saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense  
in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.   
Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone;  
therefore, we are saved by love._  
~ Reinhold Niebuhr

Exactly what happened in the next few moments was never clear to Gary, not while it was happening, and not when he tried to remember it afterward. 

There were arms and legs, kicking him, pushing him, pulling at him. Faces flashed in and out of his line of sight in a slide show of anger, hatred, fear, and confusion. 

There was movement--forward, sideways, being pushed and shoved and tripped. 

There were disjointed shouts, cries of alarm as well as anger. Once, piercingly clear, he heard Morgelyn call his name, and then she, too, was lost in the onslaught.

There was the sure and certain knowledge that he was irretrievably tangled in this anarchy, helpless to stop it, going down for the third time in the sea of fear.

Then they hit the churchyard. Somehow, being out in the open space seemed to slow everyone down; the crowd tumbled out of the church door like rice through a funnel, then paused to catch its breath, gathered in a ragged semicircle. Gary looked for Morgelyn and found her a few dozen yards away, struggling against the men who held her, Simon Elders and Roy, one of the guards from the day before. They were holding on so tight that their knuckles were white against the green fabric of her dress. It was only when Gary tried to get to her that he realized that two of the tavern buddies were holding him as well, keeping a death grip on his arms. Shit! He couldn't stop anything if he couldn't move; he needed help. Where was Fergus? Though Gary was taller than most of the crowd, and he whipped his head around feverishly, he couldn't see or hear Fergus at all. Had he run away? It would explain why he hadn't ever been in the story, but still, Gary couldn't help but be disappointed in him.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for some kind of order or direction. He was pushed and jostled as the circle shifted to make room for more people, but he couldn't wrench himself free. The shouting continued, too, an awful blend of cries for help and cries of hate and little kids crying for their mothers. 

But worse than that, worse than any of it, was the tang that assaulted his nostrils. Something was burning down in the village center. He managed to twist around, nearly tearing his shoulder out of its socket, and saw a plume of smoke rising from the woodpile. They'd already started--oh, God. They were dragging Morgelyn toward it; they would just throw her on it and--

"You can't do this!" Desperate, trapped, he added his own voice to the general melee, but no one heeded him, and his captors tightened their grips. He'd break an arm if he had to, to get away. "No! Morgelyn!"

"STOP!" Father Ezekiel's voice boomed out across the village. Everyone froze, except for Morgelyn, who caught Gary's eye in that split-second of silence. 

"Go home," she mouthed. Like hell he would. 

"This is not the way to go about this." Father Ezekiel's commanding tone held the crowd in a momentary thrall. "You are acting like heathens. Christ taught us that there is redemption for even the worst of sinners."

"Redemption comes through fire!" shouted the man on Gary's right, the short, bearded one who'd thought Morgelyn had flown out of the cellar. Gary tried to elbow him in the gut, but the grip on his arm was too tight. There were shouts of agreement, including Simon's. He shook Morgelyn as he yelled, and she shut her eyes. Lady Nessa's guard merely smirked. Nessa herself stood in the church doorway, watching the whole thing with her arms folded across the jeweled bodice of her gown. 

But just when Gary thought one of them was the worst, another stepped up to the plate. As the noise died down, Father Malcolm came from his place by the church door, emboldened, again, by the prospect of violence. "There is nothing more you can do to save her soul," he said to Father Ezekiel. "She has been given every chance to confess her sins, and she refuses."

"I have nothing to confess to you!" Morgelyn's defiance cut through the air. "You are the one who should seek redemption! You were supposed to be our priest, our protector, and you let them do this? How _could_ you?" 

Banning approached Morgelyn with predatory calm. "Do not speak to the priest like that, lest you will further damn yourself."

"I have done nothing wrong!"

"That is a lie." Simon shook her again, and damn it, Gary could not break free of the hands that held him, but he had to get over there, before the worst could happen. "You killed Mark Styles."

"No, I did not." Awkwardly twisting around so she could look the man in the face, Morgelyn regained some measure of composure. "You know it, if you would only remember. You used to know me, Simon. You all used to know who I was." Her gaze swept the assembled villagers, pleading with them to remember. "The last thing my grandmother asked of me was to take care of this village, to stand up with you, against those who would destroy it." This was delivered with a pointed glare in Nessa's direction, and then she turned back to Simon. "The last thing she did was to deliver your child. Stephen was breached and my grandmother saved his life. She saved Lara's life, too, but now in your ignorance and your fear, you will take it away."

Stunned silence was broken by the crackling of logs in the fire down below. Gary could see the flames now. 

Father Ezekiel said, "It is God's providence that Morgelyn has returned now, Simon, when your wife needs her help. Will you deny Lara that providence?"

Simon's gaze flickered from Ezekiel to Malcolm, who was shaking his head, then to the other villagers. Unbelievably, he was wavering. Gary could see it in the way his bitter scowl eased into confusion. Morgelyn was intent on watching him, whispering, "Simon, please, Lara needs my help."

She didn't see it. Simon didn't see it. Anyone else who might have noticed was frozen by the drama playing out before them--except for Gary. 

He saw Banning's arm draw back, and knew. In the stillness, the paralyzing silence, he knew what was about to happen. It would only take one spark to ignite the crowd again, to bring back the wave that would carry Morgelyn, carry all of them, down the hill and to the hungry fire, where the flames were licking the morning air and looking for something to burn. Banning intended to give them that spark. Gary had to stop him.

He couldn't get free.

He _had_ to get free.

Warmth that was more than just anger and desperation flooded through him, warmth and strength that propelled him forward, dragging the men who were holding him for a couple of feet before he shook them off. He sprang at Banning just as the friar yelled, "Lies!" and smashed his hand into Morgelyn's cheek.

Simon and the guard let go and Morgelyn dropped to the ground with a cry of pain, but before anyone else could react, Gary had Banning's arm locked in his grip. This time the crowd noise was shocked, but he no longer cared what they thought. His frustration with the whole situation was focused on one target. With strength he hadn't thought he had left, he spun Banning around and drove him across the open space, toward the church. Panting, Gary rammed him against the wall with one hand on his shoulder, the other still clenching the arm that had hit--that had hurt--

He couldn't get past that, and he was ready to throw a few punches of his own, but instead an unbidden torrent of words came pouring out of his mouth.

"Is this what makes you a man? Is this how you make yourself better, by scaring people every way you know how and blinding them to the truth? By hurting people who dare to get in your way? Does that make you a better person?" The words were for Nessa, too; for Simon and the others, for anyone who'd taken part in this. Something had hold of Gary now, some part of his soul that had seen this happen too many times, in too many ways, to stand by any longer.

"She's telling the _truth_." Gary shoved Banning into the wall one more time, jaw clenched against the desire to do more than just push him around. That wouldn't be right, it wouldn't solve anything, but his words could. How he knew this, he had no idea; it was just a current, and he let himself be carried along by his conviction. He turned to the crowd and waggled a hand between Banning and Father Malcolm, who stood in front of Lady Nessa, white as a sheet. "These two men, they want to throw away her chance to help you, to prove that she's not what they say she is, because they know, they know, that you would believe her if she could make them well." He spotted Anna just behind Father Ezekiel. Her son was on the ground at her feet and she had an arm around Lara Elders's waist, holding her friend up. "Anna," he said, softening his voice. "Anna's lost more than any of you in the past couple days, but she hasn't given up faith in the one person who can really help her." 

He swung his arm in Morgelyn's direction, and heads followed as if attached by a string. He nearly lost his voice when he saw the way Simon and Roy hauled her roughly to her feet, but she lifted her head, and the hope that he could still see there seemed to pull the words right out of him. "Look at her, will you? She was--she still is --your friend. She wouldn't have come back if she didn't want to help you. She knew this could happen-- _all_ of this," he added with a nod at the fire. "But she came back because you, her neighbors, are sick, and more of you are going to get sick if you don't let someone help."

Simon dropped his hold on Morgelyn's arm, but the guard didn't. Gary started toward her, but Banning spat on the ground, sending spittle into the dirt at Gary's feet. "You will all be cursed and die if you do not rid yourselves of--"

"That's enough!" He whirled on Banning. "You can't make something true just by saying it over and over. You have no proof. You tortured her, and you couldn't even get a confession. Did he tell you that?" he asked Simon. "Did he tell you what he did yesterday in that ruined house? Look at her--at her hand--at--" He had to stop; he couldn't just use Morgelyn like she was exhibit A or something. But he definitely had everyone's undivided attention as he approached her; he knew that now, here in the growing light of late morning, they could see the bruises on her face, including the new one blossoming on her cheek. Roy took a hard look at Gary, at what was written on his face, and dropped her arm. She stepped toward Gary, who put a hand on her shoulder.   
"Her hand. An interesting point," Banning scoffed, though he didn't move from his position against the church wall. "One test of witchcraft is to hold the woman's hand in fire. If she is innocent, God will protect her. This woman was burned by a mere candle flame."

"Because you held it in that flame with tongs," Morgelyn said, cold and quiet. She shivered when Gary squeezed her shoulder. 

"If you were innocent, God would have protected you from harm." Malcolm looked around the circle of villagers for affirmation as he trumpeted his pronouncement, but most people were frowning in confusion at this new bit of theology.

"God does allow the innocent to be hurt." Father Ezekiel cast a sympathetic glance at Anna, then nodded at the graves behind the church. "Those who were killed by the pestilence, who were tortured by those boils and the venom they released into their bodies, were innocent."

"Don't need a priest to tell me that." The worn, familiar voice came from somewhere outside the circle. For the first time, Gary noticed the old man who leaned against the corner of the church, clutching his staff, his blind eyes fixed on the sky. "Fire didn't fix anything. Fire just burns."

"Robert--" Morgelyn tried to move toward him, but she would have had to go past Banning to get to him. Gary held on tight to her shoulder. 

Father Ezekiel, nodding, continued: "How many of you lost children? Or parents? What hideous sin were they being punished for?" He glared at Malcolm. "But you would not know about that. Where were you when they needed your help the last time? And whose side do you stand on now?" 

Malcolm had no answer. Restless whispers ran through the crowd. Gary could sense something--a tide turning, maybe, but it was turning awfully slowly. Most of the people still didn't look convinced, and the flames down at the bottom of the hill were getting higher. 

"We know what might happen to us is awful," Morgelyn said, and her eyes were fixed on Lara, on Anna and Tolan. "Sickness and famine and cold. But how could those be worse than what we bring on ourselves?"

"You can't beat this stuff if you tear yourselves apart," Gary said, trying to press whatever advantage they had. "And how long will it take before it's someone else? Before it's your wife, Simon, or your daughter? How long until you go after Anna, because she's all alone now and has no one to speak up for her?" He paused, and let the weight of his stare fall on as many people as he could. "How long before someone decides it's one of you?"

"That will not happen," Father Malcolm said. "We only want to redeem this one witch."

"That is a lie." Fergus pushed his way through the villagers and came to stand next to Morgelyn, flashing her and Gary a sheepish, apologetic grin. With him was Freckles, of all people. "It has all been a lie from the very beginning, and we can prove it." Bowing slightly, Fergus presented Cecily to the crowd with a flourish of his arm. "Cecily works at the manor house--or she did until today. And she has something she wants all of you to know."

"As if anyone would take a serving maid's word against my own?" Nessa's smile was the same one she'd used on Gary, as if she was trying to seduce the entire village. But her fingers worked the silk of her dress in nervous fidgets, and Fergus ignored her completely.

"Go ahead, Cecily. Tell them what you heard."

Gary couldn't believe it. He'd thought the guy had ducked out on them, and instead he'd found proof? But what could Cecily possibly prove? As if she knew what Gary was thinking, Cecily looked around at all the people and bit her lip. But Fergus took her hand and gave her his most winning smile, and the girl found her voice. "It was m'lady and the friar." Cecily timidly tilted her chin toward Banning. Her freckles stood out in sharp relief on her pale skin. "I--I heard them last night," she squeaked. "They said the fire in the old manor was a good thing. That it would frighten the villagers--all of you--and make sure you believed that Morgelyn was a witch. And if they could not find her, they could always find someone else to blame and to burn. That is what he said. He said--he said--" She swallowed hard, and gripped Fergus's sleeve.

"Go on," he encouraged her. 

"He said the next one to burn would be Father Ezekiel, that he would make you all believe horrible things about him."

There was a murmur in the crowd, incredulous instead of angry. "No, oh no," Morgelyn whispered.

"I came to warn him because I knew that could not be right." Cecily turned rapidly-blinking eyes on Father Ezekiel. "You stayed with my mum when she was sick, when everyone else left us. You made sure she had the sacraments. You cannot be evil."

Ezekiel simply gaped at her, then at Malcolm and Lady Nessa.

"If he can be accused," Gary jumped in, "not one of you is safe." He fixed Nessa with a sharp look. "Not one. She wants you to go running to her for protection. To give up your freedom. But from what I heard, there's a history of this village overcoming this kind of dragon. You can't do it by turning against each other."

A man Gary didn't know called out from the knot of children that surrounded him. "Why would Lady Nessa care what happens here?"

"Because she wants your land. More important, she wants you." Gary didn't dare look at Nessa right at that moment, or he'd have lost his nerve. "She told me so herself. She can't find enough workers to bring in her own crops, and yet she still wants more land, to increase her own power."

"She believes that if you are frightened of the future, and of each other, you will give up your land and come work for her." Fergus was nearly strutting as he moved around the circle, spinning his newest tale; a true one, this time. "Then she can work you and your children until you collapse." With the aplomb of a presidential candidate, he stopped next to Tamsyn and James and rested his hands on their heads. "Is that what you want? To live in servitude?"

"What choice will we have?" The blond man who'd looked scared earlier, back at the well, spoke up from behind Father Ezekiel. "My sons are all ill, we are dying, and soon there will be no one left to work the land. What good is freedom if we starve?"

Nessa's smile curled. "No one will starve under my protection. It is true, I wanted to frighten you, but if you only will look with clear eyes, you will see that what I offer you is better than freedom. It is a chance to live."

"As her serfs and vassals!" Fergus finished.

"We have to live, somehow," Simon insisted.

"Together." Everyone turned to Morgelyn as she stepped away from Gary's protective hand. "My grandmother said that if we stood together, if we believed together, we would survive the dragon, just like the villagers in Efflam's time. But this time the dragon is not illness. It is those who would make you believe lies, who would hurt anyone who stands in their way so that they might take what they do not rightfully own."

"I do not know who is telling the truth," said one man. "Even our priests cannot advise us, for they are divided."

"We have yet to have proof of Morgelyn's good intentions. See how Tolan Styles suffers even now," Simon called hoarsely, but he was looking at his wife. "All her so-called cure has done so far is prolong his agony."

Lara Elders pushed herself away from Anna and stepped toward her husband. "Simon, no." But she stumbled there, in front of all of them, and collapsed on the ground. Simon stared at her blankly while Tamsyn and James hurried forward. 

"Mama, mama, mama," Tamsyn wailed, grasping her mother's dress and trying to shake her back to consciousness. Morgelyn started toward Lara, but Simon shoved Gary roughly away as he hurried to his wife, and Gary pulled Morgelyn back before the man could touch her. 

"She's dying. Look what you have done!" Simon thundered at no one in particular. 

"This would be a good time to escape," Fergus muttered under his breath, but the crowd was all around them. There was nowhere to go.

"I will offer you the services of my own physician," Nessa said, her voice loud and shrill. "If you will but consider my offer. Bring your families under my care, and your trouble will be at an end."

"Simon, there is much we can do." Morgelyn reached out a pleading hand, her voice gentle but choked. "If you just let me try--"

"No more trying." He turned to Nessa, and it seemed to Gary that the whole crowd held its breath while Simon swallowed and said, "I will take your offer."

Fergus groaned; Morgelyn turned and hid her face in Gary's shoulder. No, he thought, wrapping an arm around her. It couldn't end like this. Hadn't they heard him?

"Papa!" Tamsyn stood up, yanking Simon's sleeve, staring at Gary. "Look!"

"Not now, girl."

"But Papa, he's glowing!" Tamsyn pointed at Gary. "Look!" she repeated, and ran to his side, touched the hem of his shirt.

Gary looked down, realizing only now how warm it was right where the pouch was touching his skin. 

"Oh!" Morgelyn gasped. She stepped back, wiping her eyes. The light came from the Dragon's Eye; it shone through the leather pouch, the linen shirt, the vest. Dizzy, Gary took it out; he hardly heard the gasps when he lifted the ball, which was indeed glowing. A dazzling array of colors danced inside it. 

"It's--" He blinked in confusion. He couldn't make out distinct shapes in the light, and he couldn't hear or feel anything specific, but in that moment, there was the most reassuring sense that he was not alone, that he'd never been alone.

"Trust it, Gary." He turned to Morgelyn, but she hadn't spoken. "We're with you." 

"Marissa?" he whispered, and Morgelyn's hand wrapped around his arm. 

"You see, this is proof!" Banning's harsh pronouncement startled him so much that he nearly dropped the ball. "This is proof of their witchcraft! Only something evil could produce such magic!"

"No," Morgelyn whispered. 

"No." Father Ezekiel was much louder. 

The light stopped swirling around amorphously and seemed to coalesce, gathering force. Tamsyn reached her fingers into it, and she smiled. Though he could hear the others speaking, Gary stayed focused on whatever magic was going on right in front of his face. There was something here he needed to see.

"How can you deny--" Malcolm sputtered.

"How can you believe, Father Malcolm, that God would allow the Devil to overcome Him here, on consecrated ground?" Ezekiel countered.

"Not evil," Fergus muttered in agreement, and he was close to Gary's other elbow, Cecily a step behind. 

At that moment, the strange light shot out from the ball like an arrow. It arched over the heads of the villagers. A few reached up hesitant hands, and something like peace came over their faces as they touched it.

"God is stronger than the devil," Father Ezekiel repeated. "This can only be God's work."

Hardly conscious that he was walking, Gary moved ahead, following the path the colors laid out for him. Fergus and Morgelyn stuck close, matching his hesitant steps. The light spun itself forward like a rope, a lifeline, across the churchyard and its haphazard graves, right over the back corner where the stone carved with Celtic knots stood. "Grandmother?" Morgelyn whispered, and their steps grew quicker, surer. The light went a little beyond the flower-covered grave, into the forest, then shot straight down into a clump of pink flowers, half-hidden by low shrubs and trees.

"I do not believe it. Oh, Grandmother!" Morgelyn hurried into the forest fringe and then dropped to her knees, reaching through the colors to touch one of the plants with a trembling hand. Its flowers were tiny, clumped into thick spikes; its long, dark green leaves had wavy edges. Gary was aware of a lot of people behind him, speaking in hushed voices, but he couldn't turn around. The light before him flared for a moment, then seemed to curl back in on itself and come to rest inside the Dragon's Eye. His knees went all watery, but this was not the time to lose his nerve, not here with everyone watching. 

"What is it?" Fergus asked.

"Dragon's wort." Turning a tear-stained face to her friends, Morgelyn shook her head in awe. "'Tis truly miraculous. We looked for this all during the time of the pestilence. The very first cure in Grandmother's book. Here, look." She fumbled to take it out of the pouch at her belt.

"How long?" Robert choked. He shuffled forward with Father Ezekiel's guidance. "How long did we look for this? After all the years in which it did not grow, that it has come back now is a sign of blessing."

The crowd behind him seemed to let out a collective sigh. Faces relaxed, a few shed tears. Gary couldn't believe it. For all their fear of witchcraft, their faith in this magic seemed just as strong as their faith in the Church. But that was fine, even if he didn't understand it, as long as it meant this was over. He knelt so that his back kept anyone but Fergus from seeing the book. He still had the light-filled Dragon's Eye cradled in his hands. "What does the end say?"

"The end?"

"Did we change the story?"

They held their breath as she turned to the ending pages. Gary didn't realize that he'd closed his eyes until he heard Fergus's whooshing release of air. He couldn't read the words he saw there, but the Latin epitaph was gone, the handwriting was different, and Morgelyn, her hand over her mouth, was looking up at him with absolute joy in her eyes. "We did it," she whispered. "That horrible story is gone; this plant will cure--oh, Gary--" Throwing her arms around his neck, she could have been sobbing or laughing. Maybe both. "You really are a dragon slayer!"

"Forgive me, but--" Tapping Gary on the shoulder, Fergus indicated the villagers who stood a safe distance away, looking entirely perplexed. "Now they really will think you are both touched."

Morgelyn let go of Gary and he helped her to stand. "Simon?" she called over the crowd. "Please, before you take Nessa's offer, if you will just give me a few minutes, I know I can make Lara better."

The crowd parted; Simon stood up near the church, still rooted next to his wife. Gary had no idea if he'd heard Morgelyn. But Anna came forward, gesturing back at Father Ezekiel, who had carried her son across the churchyard. "Tolan first," she begged, then looked down and saw the bandage on Morgelyn's hand. "I will help you pick the flowers."

"And the leaves, we need the leaves, but do not take all of them, or the plants won't survive." The tension of the past few days seemed to lift off Morgelyn's face; she was suddenly all business, back home in a world she understood, Gary thought with more than a little relief. "They must be boiled into a tonic."

"Use the rectory," Father Ezekiel said, and no one stopped them as they took the flowers, the leaves, and the boy, and headed for the little house beside the church.

* * *

  
_deeds cannot dream what dreams can do_  
~ e e cummings

_"Next you'll be measuring me for armor."_

_"Hobson, he--he reminded me of someone."_

_"I want to believe this...Just like old times. Chuck to the rescue."_

_"We can help all of them. I believe that."_

Whatever the others saw, it seemed to Marissa that she heard what happened with her inner ear, as a whirlpool of voices, of hopes and fears and fragile faith. They spun together, gathering force, and then shot up and out, away from the little group huddled on the pier. They stood at the intersection of time and place, of faith and need, and created a connection that was, for a few brief seconds, utterly tangible.

And then the beam they'd sent out came back to them, rushing with the power of the storm. It hurled itself at them in the dreadful wind: terror and strength; guttural cries and desperate pleas in a language she couldn't understand; horror and hope and a familiar hand on her shoulder, just for a second, gone before she could grasp it and hold on. There were hatred and faith and confusion and love in the crackling of burning wood, and something that was greater than all those, and then the overwhelming scent of a forest and flowers, relief and joy.

In a heartbeat, it was gone.

She didn't realize she was crying, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, until she felt Chuck's arm around her shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

The umbrella was gone, too. Rain fell on her face, soft and steady, but the wind had settled into a few halfhearted gusts. "I don't know," she answered honestly, wiping her face with her palm. The thunder gave one last low rumble out over the lake and died away. "Did you feel it?"

"Feel it? Heck, we saw..." Chuck's voice trailed off; he patted her shoulder once and then released her. 

She reminded herself to keep breathing and steadied the Dragon's Eye with both hands. Her adrenaline was draining away fast, but it couldn't be over. If it was, Gary should be home.

She couldn't ask about that yet; couldn't bear to hear the answer. "What did you see?" she managed, and hoped they would attribute the way she shivered and the quake in her voice to the rain and the cold. 

"It was sorta--light--color--Marissa, that thing is weird, okay?"

"What about Gary?"

"I think I heard him, but it didn't make any sense." Chuck sounded as lost as she felt, but she could tell by his voice that he'd put distance between them, greater than her arm's reach.

"Crumb?" He, at least, was right there. His arm brushed hers when she swayed a little, but he was so uncharacteristically silent that it frightened her.

"Yo. Crumb?" Chuck snapped his fingers.

The gruff voice started out low and quiet, but it built to a thundering crescendo. "What. The. Hell. Was. _That_?"

"It was Gary." It had to have been. She'd sensed something of him in that roar of emotion and sensation. "Will one of you please tell me what happened?"

"There was a light that came out of this thing. It was like a CGI effect or something, all these colors mixing together. You can't _do_ that in real life."

"It sorta sent a beam out over the lake," Crumb mumbled, but she could tell he still didn't believe it himself.

"And then it came back. It went back--this is nuts--"

"It went back into the ball," Crumb finished. "It's still kinda dancing around in there."

Marissa pulled the Dragon's Eye in close, cradling it and wiping raindrops away with her thumb. It was still warm. "What did you feel?" 

"Very, very confused. Freaked out," said Chuck emphatically. "But it was kinda like last night. Gar was there, wasn't he?"

There was a moment of silence, then Crumb said, "You know, I've worked some tough calls. There was a train wreck once, back when I was a rookie, and some of the race riots, and after the Bulls won the championship. This was kinda like all that. People and noise and confusion."

Marissa nodded. "But not all bad."

"Nnnoooo..." Crumb seemed to have a harder time acknowledging the good things that had been there. She knew they had been there, she had felt them. "Am I gonna remember this when I wake up?"

"You're awake, Crumb. We all are."

"Do you think we helped Gary?" Chuck asked. "Did he change the story?"

"I felt him. He was at the other end of this, I know he was. There was a moment at the end where it was like Christmas and Easter and the Fourth of July, all wrapped into one. Didn't you feel it?"

Both men were silent for a moment. And then Chuck sidled close again and asked the question she could barely stand to hear. "Okay, but if it was Gary," he said slowly, "why isn't he here?" He wrapped his hand around her arm, a gentle demand for an answer she didn't possess. "Marissa, why didn't he come home?"

* * *

  
  
_Witchcraft was hung, in History,  
But History and I  
Find all the Witchcraft that we need  
Around us, every Day._  
~ Emily Dickinson

They had to brave a gantlet of wide eyes and gaping mouths to cross the graveyard. Halfway to the rectory, Morgelyn tugged on Gary's sleeve. "Bring Robert," she whispered. Gary was reluctant to leave her side, but she urged him on with a nod. Fergus and Father Ezekiel were with her; they wouldn't let anything happen. The others turned for the rectory, and the villagers who remained were left staring at Gary, some fearfully, some with outright mistrust and hostility. It should have been all over after the Dragon's Eye's incredible display. So why did he still feel so uneasy?

Because, even though Morgelyn was safe for the moment, this was a fragile truce, a tenuous peace created more by awe than by feelings of genuine goodwill. Many in the crowd spoke quietly to each other, frowning at Gary; others still stared at the forest in abject astonishment. Every single one of them got out of his way.

He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the stares while he tried to sort out what he'd felt in those few moments of light and whatever had just happened. It had to have been about more than just a plant. He'd followed that light, not because of where it led, but because of what he thought he'd felt in it, but now he wasn't sure he could describe it. It just felt right, like home, like Chicago, like McGinty's. It was as if all the grief and trouble they'd gone through had led up to that moment, and at that moment, his trust in that feeling had been all that mattered. The light, he saw as he looked down at the Dragon's Eye, was still there, trapped inside once more. It had lost some of its brilliance, but as he wrapped his hand around the globe, he could feel lingering traces of warmth and...connection, that was the word. Connection to home, to the people who wanted to help, and not just to help him. He ran a thumb over the glass. He didn't have to tell Marissa he was sorry, not any more.

In the time that it took to suss that much out, he made it to the church, where Robert was slumped against the side wall, lost in another coughing fit. Gary waited for it to pass, then touched the man on the shoulder, wondering if he could feel anything through the layers of rags he wore. "It's Gary," he said as he hauled a muttering Robert to his feet. "Here, you take my arm. It works better that way. You won't feel like I'm pushing you." Marissa had taught him this back when he'd first met her; now, Robert leaned on his cane, leaned away from Gary, and raised an eyebrow. 

"I can find my own way home, Dragon Slayer."

Gary wondered about that. There exactly was home for the old man anyway? "I know that," he said quietly, "but Morgelyn wants to see you. She wants to help you, and there are a few, uh--" He scanned the uneasy crowd. "There are a few obstacles between here and the rectory house. Let me help you get there." To his surprise, Robert didn't resist. But when Gary tried to lead him around to the front of the church, where the path led to the rectory off on the side of the hill, he realized they'd have to go through the crowd that still lingered around Lara, who lay in the grass in an awkward tangle of arms, legs, and hair, just as she'd fallen. Gary hesitated, and would have tried to bring her along so she could get help, too, but Simon knelt next to her. He was oblivious to his children nearby, oblivious to the neighbors who tried to speak to him. 

"One obstacle at a time," Robert muttered. "Leave Elders be."

"How did you-- Gary shook his head. It was probably not a question he wanted answered. A whisper-soft breeze tickled the back of his neck, and the Dragon's Eye in his hand seemed to grow warmer as he led Robert through the crowd. Most people still were giving him a wide berth, but a few acknowledged him with a nod, or, in Nia's case, a smile. She ventured closer when he shot her a half-hearted grin, her eyes twinkling and her teeth peeking through her tentative smile. "We never did have that dance, Gary."

It seemed to him that it had been light years since that day at the fair. "Well, uh..."

She raised her voice. "'Tis a fine thing that you did." Tilting her chin defiantly, she popped up on tiptoe to brush a quick kiss on Gary's cheek. Robert guffawed, but, even though she blushed, Nia stepped away with her head held high. "We need Morgelyn," she said, for the benefit of those around her. "And I never want to be a vassal to anyone." She flashed Gary a hurried smile before she stepped back toward her father, who sat on a stump, watching her with an equal mixture of pride and amusement. Glancing over his shoulder, Gary saw why Nia had retreated so abruptly. Nessa stood a few yards away, framed by the arched door of the church. She'd heard Nia, and now she was staring at Gary with anger in her eyes. 

Pulling herself up to her full height, she said, "Simon, my steward has already gone to fetch the physician. He will be here soon."

Robert tugged on Gary's elbow, urging him away. But this wasn't over yet, and Gary couldn't leave until he had some kind of assurance that his friends would be safe, that this wouldn't blow up in their faces all over again.

And Morgelyn had said from the beginning that she wanted to save the whole village.

Even those who'd hurt her? Chewing on his lip, Gary looked from the Dragon's Eye to the back of Simon's head. He had to try. He could hardly picture leaving now, knowing that the next bad thing that happened, or the one after that, might make the hostilities flare up all over again.

He patted Robert's hand before he lifted it off his sleeve. "Wait here."

Simon Elders hadn't seen Gary; his back to the crowd, he bent over his wife. James stood just beyond and, curled into a ball at her brother's feet, Tamsyn peeked out through her long tangles of hair. As Gary approached, Simon tapped his palm against Lara's face, trying to get her to wake up. There was a tenderness in the way he swept the sweat-stuck hair from his wife's cheek that kept Gary from hating the man entirely, and gave him the impetus to ignore the cold stare that Nessa trained on him.

When Gary cleared his throat, Simon leapt to his feet, arms spread wide to protect his family. "I don't want to hurt her," Gary said, trying to banish the pictures of what Simon had done, the words he had said to Morgelyn. He could never do this if he dwelt on those memories. "I tried to stop anyone from getting hurt today, that's all I was doing."

Simon's arms dropped to his sides, his hands curled into fists. His eyes were still hard as flint, but tiny sparks of doubt flickered through them. "My wife--" His voice dropping to a whisper, he looked down at Lara. "She is dying. I have no choice. The children need her." Tamsyn gave a sob and buried her face in her mother's skirt. James tensed, desperate, Gary could tell, for something to do. 

"Dragon Slayer," Robert growled hoarsely, "you cannot win every battle."

Gary couldn't shake the feeling that he had to win this one. "I understand, Simon; really, I do. You've been angry, and you're not sure what's going on, and you needed someone to blame. But I promise you, if you trust Morgelyn, she won't let you down." He waved an arm in the direction his friends had gone, but dropped it when he realized, belatedly, that Simon was staring in fascinated horror at the Dragon's Eye with which he'd gestured. He had to be careful; if he pushed Simon too far he'd lose him entirely. And he couldn't lose him, not now, or everything that had happened would have been in vain. 

It was only a plant. The treasure the Dragon's Eye had led them too, the magic it had revealed, was nothing more than a plant. But what the treasure was didn't matter as much as what it could do. There hadn't been that bit of magic, that flash of light, that feeling of trust pushing him forward, for nothing. 

Not for nothing. He believed that, and he put that faith into what he said next. "By the time Lady Nessa's man gets here, Morgelyn could have already helped your wife." He dared a step closer, lowering his voice. "It's what she wanted, isn't it? I know you don't trust me, but do you trust Lara?"

"Papa." His voice timid, James flexed his fingers and toed at the ground. "This morning when you did not come home, Mama was crying because she could not get out of bed and she needed help and she said--" Drawing a breath, he squared his shoulders and seemed to grow a couple inches, a boy becoming a man as he stared at his father. "She said if you had not condemned Morgelyn, she would not have been so sick. Is that true?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Simon, do not listen to this child," Nessa said, but she stilled when Gary shot her a warning look.

Tamsyn snuffled, lifting her dirt-and-tear-streaked face. "I want Mama!" she wailed. Lara stirred, but didn't open her eyes, and, sensing that Simon's opposition might be weakening, Gary took the opening.

"Robert here got sick before Mark did. He took the medicine Morgelyn gave him; so did Tolan, and they're both still alive to be helped now. Mark didn't, and he's--" Gary stopped and tried to cover his gaff by clearing his throat. It wouldn't do to remind them of the wrong things. "Why don't you bring your wife inside? If you decide to take Nessa's offer, the physician can treat Lara there, but at least she'll be comfortable."

"Don't like the lady lying in the churchyard before she's even dead," Robert added. "Temptin' fate, Elders."

Simon blanched. Gary saw a shudder run through the man as he looked again at his wife. "I will bring her inside for her comfort. That is all," he finally muttered. As he bent to lift Lara, Simon caught his son's eyes. "Help me, boy." A flash of pride cut through the worry and fear on James's face, and he and his father gathered Lara in a chair lift and started toward the rectory. 

Gary guided Robert's hand back to his elbow. It felt strange, but in a good way, to have someone trusting him with this little job again. Tamsyn scuttled over and slipped her sticky fingers over the hand he had on the Dragon's Eye, blinking the last tears from her eyes as she lifted her face. "Can you fix my mama? Can you touch her with the rainbow and make her better?"

Behind them, the crowd stirred, and Gary cast an uneasy glance their way. They still didn't trust him.

"Please?" Tamsyn begged.

He gulped. The rainbow, so to speak, was still playing inside the Dragon's Eye, and Gary could feel the villagers' stares boring into him. "I think what Morgelyn's making can fix her better than that," Gary said, half-turning so more people could see them, "but do--do you want to try?" Before he could second guess himself, before he could give in to the temptation to hide the thing away from prying eyes, he held out the treasure to Tamsyn. "It belongs to all of you, really. It won't hurt you."

Fingers in her mouth, Tamsyn hesitated. Simon and James didn't see what was happening; they were halfway to the rectory already. But Gary noticed that several people made the sign of the cross, and many of them backed away. Again, it was Nia who found her voice. 

"Father Ezekiel said it was a miracle. There is nothing to fear." She took the globe from Gary's outstretched hands. Her movements were careful, and only Gary was close enough to see the way her fingers shook. But once she had it, a relieved smile transformed her features from a gawky adolescent's to those of a confident young woman. She knelt next to Tamsyn, tracing the path of a blue swirl of light with one finger. Tamsyn glanced off in the direction her father had gone, chewing her lip, then touched the glass ball with her index finger. A smile lit her face, too. 

"'Tis true!" she whispered. Gary nodded when she asked, "Can I really hold it?" and they shared a grin of pure joy, while Robert grunted in satisfaction.

"Papa!" Tamsyn called after her father. "Papa, Mama is going to be well!" She wrapped both arms tight around the Dragon's Eye and hurried after her father on wobbly legs. Gary was suddenly swept with a feeling of loneliness, and he knew he couldn't let it get too far out of his sight. 

"Thank you," he said to Nia, and, on impulse, lifted her hand and kissed it. It made him feel a little like Cary Grant. Blushing to match the roots of her hair, Nia smiled after him as he led Robert toward the rectory. Nessa made some kind of exasperated noise, but Gary didn't look back.

The rectory didn't seem as large as it had on his first visit. That was probably because of the crowd that filled it: Anna sat next to Tolan, who lay on a pile of blankets near the fire. Morgelyn tore the leaves and flowers of the dragon's wort and handed them to Fergus, who tossed them into a kettle over the fire. Gary didn't miss the fact that she stayed well away from the hearth. Certainly no one could help but notice the ominous scowl Fergus directed at Simon, except maybe Simon himself, who was at the other end of the room, where Father Ezekiel pulled back a curtain to reveal a sleeping room like the one in Morgelyn's cottage. Simon and James eased Lara down onto the bed after the priest smoothed the rough blanket. Morgelyn nudged Fergus and handed him more leaves, and he turned off the death look. One post-crisis confrontation avoided, Gary thought, but he wondered how many more there would be.

He helped Robert to sit at the table. Cecily hovered near the fire and stirred the kettle, following Morgelyn's instructions. The only one missing was Declan, but when Gary asked about him, Father Ezekiel would only say that he'd sent him on an errand that morning.

Grim-faced and silent, Simon retreated to the dark corner farthest from the fire and stood glowering at everyone in the place. His children sat with their mother, who woke every few minutes from her fever to cough and mumble incoherently. Morgelyn started across the room, but that brought Simon out of his corner, jaw set, arms crossed over his chest. Reluctantly, she let Fergus tug her back near the fire, and they began ladling the stuff in the kettle into cups for Robert and Tolan. 

Gary settled himself on the bench at the table between the fire and the sleeping alcove. Morgelyn's book lay on the table, open to a page that held a drawing similar to the flowers they'd found, along with lots of writing that he couldn't decipher. Flipping to the back, he found what he was looking for; some pictures that he guessed were supposed to illustrate the dragon story Morgelyn and Joseph had told the villagers a few days ago. Nobody getting burned at the stake. Warm fur brushed his ankle where the too-short pants didn't quite meet the tops of his boots, and Cat's purr vibrated against his skin. 

"Hey, buddy." Gary reached down to scratch the tabby behind its ears. "Where ya been?" As if he'd ever get an answer. Fergus sat down across from Gary, a mug of ale in his hand. He peeked under the table to see what Gary was doing, and came up shaking his head.

"It still seems like a great deal of trouble for a cat," he said.

"And a plant," Gary reminded him. "Don't forget the plant." They shared a rueful smile.

"Look, Papa, it is still working." Tamsyn, who'd been playing with her mother's hair, wandered over to Simon and tried to show him the Dragon's Eye. He ignored her at first, and then, when she persisted, he blinked down as though really seeing the child for the first time. 

"What are you doing with that evil thing? Put it down."

Tamsyn shook her tangled hair and stomped her foot. "It is _not_ bad. They said it was not."

"They were wrong."

Father Ezekiel looked up from the hushed conversation he was having with Anna. "Simon Elders." His voice was loaded with the full weight of his authority, and Simon snapped to attention. "Have you taken note of all that has happened here today? You can see it is not hurting her."

Fergus leaned across the table. "Do you not need that? How will you get home?" But Gary held up a hand and he fell silent.

"I do not want my child handling that thing." Simon kept his voice low, but his face was turning red from the effort of holding it in.

Gary stood. "Then take it away from her."

Simon fixed him with an incredulous stare. "You _are_ mad."

"If you think it's so dangerous, shouldn't you save your daughter from it? What would your wife say?" 

"You must take it, priest," Simon boomed at Father Ezekiel. There was more terror than command laced through his words.

"No, Simon, you take it." Though he knew the man's wife lay on the brink of death, Gary kept on pushing, tweaking him. It felt like the right thing to do, and not because Simon had done so much more than tweak the past couple of days. This wasn't some territorial schoolyard dare; too much depended on it. The future, their future, was at stake. "You weren't afraid to throw Morgelyn on the fire, so why should you be afraid of this?"

"I was drunk," Simon muttered, studying at his mud-crusted boots. 

Gary looked over his shoulder at Morgelyn. She'd heard every word; smoothing Tolan's hair in a mechanically rhythmic motion, she stared warily at Simon, still too much like a cornered mouse for Gary's comfort. Simon hadn't admitted he'd been wrong not yet, and Gary knew that even the glimmer of confession that had come was due to the fact that the only authority figure here, now, was on Morgelyn's side. But it was another tiny step in the right direction. He could tell because Cat had jumped up on the table and was watching the scene with its unfathomable stare.

Fergus stood up, too. "Do you fear to touch the very thing your child has cradled in her arms without harm, without fear?" Behind them, Cecily let out a breathy giggle.

Simon looked up sharply. "Of course I am not afraid, MacEwan, you pip-squeak."

"But while your child is innocent, you are not." Father Ezekiel narrowed the distance between himself and Elders. "Is that what you fear, Simon? Retribution?"

Gary gulped. That was further than he would have gone, more than he would have even thought of, but Ezekiel had hit the nail on the head. Simon flashed a guilty glance at Morgelyn. It was what he--not wanted, exactly, but expected. In fact, he already seemed to have decided what form it was going to take. He looked from Morgelyn to his wife, and his features sagged, his face suddenly years older. 

"She will be taken away from me because I..." Simon trailed off, and though no one else spoke, he didn't finish.

Father Ezekiel's sigh was pure exasperation; pure Crumb, Gary thought with a half-grin. "Simon, this is not the work of God. If your wife dies, you might see it as punishment for your sins, but is it right that your children should be punished as well?"

"Mama is _not_ going to die," Tamsyn insisted. She held the globe up to her father again. "The rainbow is still dancing." Cat meowed from its perch on the table.

Father Ezekiel rested a hand on Tamsyn's head. "Would a loving God who has allowed this miracle to take place on His very doorstep extract penance from your children?"

Finally, _finally_ , there was a real crack in the stone wall that was Simon Elders. "I--Father, I--" He shook his head, and looked down to hide his confusion, but instead of a hiding place, he found his daughter nd the Dragon's Eye.

"Here, Papa, you can have it. It will make you feel better."

Simon looked at his daughter, at his wife, at his priest. Then he looked at Morgelyn. Her shoulders were back now, and her chin was up, and there was nothing intimidated about her that Gary could see. 

"I--I thought...damn." Simon shook his head and turned back to his daughter. After another moment's hesitation, he took the ball and wrapped his fingers around it. 

Gary held his breath, hoping against hope that they'd done the right thing. Simon took a few shuffling steps toward his wife and knelt at her side. 

Father Ezekiel cleared his throat and turned a raised eyebrow on the assembled group, and they all found a reason to look away from the Elders family. There were other tasks to attend to.

* * *

  
_Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight_  
 _You got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight_  
~Bruce Cockburn

Gary handed Robert the mug that Morgelyn had prepared and helped the old man drink. Cradling his head on his arms, Robert was soon slumped over the table and snoring softly. Morgelyn smiled when she heard the sound, so Gary assumed it was a good sign.

Before long Tolan was sitting up, looking around with real curiosity. It was the first time Gary had seen the boy awake, and he really was awfully cute, even though his skin was way too pale against all that red hair. But his cough had stopped, and he was responding to Anna and Morgelyn. Anna kept darting shy glances at Gary, who finally managed to keep her gaze long enough to send her an encouraging smile. "That was one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do, you showing up in the church like that," he told her. "Thank you." She blushed and looked down. 

"Gary is right," Morgelyn told her quietly. "You--" She broke off and jumped to her feet when a shadow fell across the room. Gary turned around and understood why he'd seen the fear return to her expression. Lady Nessa and her physician stood in the open doorway. 

The physician wasn't much to look at; he was an older man with very little hair circling his bald top. He stayed in the doorway while Nessa stepped into the room. Cecily ducked behind Fergus with a squeak. Ignoring her former maid, Nessa trained her cool gaze on Morgelyn. "I heard that some of the sick were here. Despite that little display you put on earlier, surely you will give way to a more trained healer."

"She is doing quite well on her own," Father Ezekiel said stiffly. Robes swirling behind him, he crossed the room to stand in front of the table, in front of all the others, with Gary. "Where is your hired help, Lady Nessa?"

"I am not sure what you mean."

Gary should have been used to her implacable façade by now, but whereas before it had creeped him out, now it just made him angry. "Banning." He ground out the word one last time, hating the way it tasted in his mouth.

"Father Malcolm and Brother Banning are on their way to the bishop. I am sure they will have a great deal to tell him about you," she said with a cool nod at Father Ezekiel, "and your interference in a parish that is not truly your own."

"And I am sure, Lady, that His Grace will be most interested in what they have to say for themselves. My nephew left this morning to bring him a full account of the past few days." Ezekiel crossed his arms and scowled at her. "Of course, we'll have to bring the bishop up to date on today's events, but considering the fact that he has already offered me a permanent assignment in Gwenyllan, and expressed his doubts about Malcolm's true vocation, I am quite sure that it will be some time before we see either Father Malcolm or Brother Banning in these parts again."

Gary could hear Morgelyn's relieved sigh behind him. Maybe it really was over.

Hesitation flashed through Nessa's eyes, but she kept the defiant look plastered on her face. "In any case, priest, we have very little left to say to each other." She turned to the Elders family. "Simon, you will allow Odo Dutetre to attend to your wife while you and I discuss the terms of our agreement."

Simon looked from Nessa to his wife, and then to where Morgelyn stood next to Anna and her son. Morgelyn opened her mouth, then bit her lip, and Gary, too, kept silent. They'd made their case. 

"He has been trained in the French court," Nessa added, as if that were reason enough to sell out an entire village.

"I do not think--" Simon started, then looked at his wife. Again at Morgelyn, at Father Ezekiel. 

"Once you make this choice you cannot go back," Ezekiel said quietly. "Think of what Nessa's generosity will cost you."

"Think of what your peasant superstition will cost your wife," Nessa countered. She shifted as if to make a move toward Simon, but Gary matched her, blocking her access to the room.

"Let Morgelyn try," Anna pleaded, getting stiffly to her feet. Her voice was timid and quiet, but she looked Simon in the eye. "Mark lost his life because he was so stubborn. You were always wiser than my husband, better able to use your mind. Listen to reason."

"She is my wife."

"And she is my friend, and the mother of James and Tamsyn." Anna nodded to the children who sat on the edge of the bed, James holding Tamsyn on his lap and Tamsyn again clutching the Dragon's Eye. Gary wondered if it could produce another miracle, one that would push Simon onto their side, but somehow that didn't seem right. He hoped it wouldn't be necessary. 

"Father," James said softly. "Mother wanted Morgelyn. She would not like a stranger touching her. And look at Tolan, he is practically well now." At that, Nessa cocked her head curiously toward the little group by the fire, and Gary saw the wheels start to turn in her head. But James didn't notice. "And I do not want to work for anyone but you. I want to work our farm, and pass it down to my own children someday."

Simon stared at his son as if he were seeing him for the first time, as if it was finally registering with him that this boy was very nearly his own man. He grunted. 

"He may not live to have children, if you do not choose wisely." Nessa snapped her attention back to Simon and held her hand out to him. "These country cures are useless."

"It is more than a country cure." Morgelyn stepped forward, offering Simon one of Ezekiel's pewter mugs. "It is a gift from God's green earth, and no less a miracle because of that. Look at Tolan, Simon, and at Robert. It is not just your freedom, but her life you may be sacrificing." Simon stared at the mug, but didn't take it.

"Morgelyn is willing to try, after what you did to her," Fergus pointed out. "Nessa will only let you use her man if you give her everything you own."

Everything hung in the balance here, and some of Gary's earlier sense of danger, of the future balanced on a knife edge, returned. Morgelyn had thought he'd come to save the village, but in order to do that, he'd had to save her. And that was so Simon would have a choice to make now, but the outcome still rested on the choice of one stubborn, hard-hearted man. 

Simon reached out as if to take Lara's hand, but she murmured something in her fever, and his hand fell back to his side. 

"I will not make this offer again." Nessa's façade was practically gone now; her words were shrill and she was suddenly several shades paler. "You will be a widower, penniless, begging for my help and I will turn you away."

"I would never beg," Simon said gruffly, and whatever had broken in him before seemed to be stitching itself back together. He touched Tamsyn's head, squeezed James's shoulder. "I thank you for your offer, Lady Nessa, but I fear I must refuse."

"Simon," she started, but the big man was too busy staring at his wife, counting every deep breath that came without a cough.

"I believe that what Simon Elders wishes to say is that your help comes at too high a cost. And I shall say so to any man who asks for my counsel in this matter." Father Ezekiel held out an arm to the door, Nessa's cue to exit.

"As shall I," Simon added in a mumble.

"You do not speak for the entire village. There will be those who accept my offer of protection."

"There will be more," Father Ezekiel told her, "who do not."

Nessa stood frozen; everyone else in the room seemed to wilt a little with relief. Morgelyn hurried over to the bed, and Simon stepped away with a nod, not meeting her eyes. James lifted Lara's head so that Morgelyn, sitting on the bed, could spoon the potion into her mouth. Though her eyes remained closed, Lara smiled gratefully. When James eased her back on the straw mattress, the lines on her face softened. "She sleeps comfortably," Morgelyn said after a few minutes. She stroked Tamsyn's hair and flashed an encouraging smile at James, but she didn't look at Simon, who stood like a stone at the foot of the bed. "Let her rest."

Even while he was watching the little scene at the bed, Gary kept part of his attention focused on Nessa and her physician. He wasn't too worried about Odo, who still stood in the doorway like his lady's shadow, but Nessa was still, even now, scheming. He could see it in her eyes and in the tiny smile that was starting to curve her lips.

"I think you can go now," Gary told her, hoping to forestall whatever it was she had planned. She lifted one thin eyebrow in his direction, and Gary wondered how he could have ever thought her smile less than feral. How could he have ever kissed her? Mead, he told himself. Way too much mead. 

"Perhaps not yet. Morgelyn, may we speak?" Nessa asked, and every nerve in Gary's body went on full alert. She'd sounded almost friendly. What did she want now?

Morgelyn got to her feet, wary once more. She came over to join Gary and Ezekiel, and Simon took her place next to his wife. Arms crossed over her chest, Morgelyn stared at Nessa, but didn't say anything. That didn't seem to bother Nessa at all.

"This plant that you have found intrigues me. If it is as valuable as you say it is, if it really can cure the villagers of their sickness--you do realize that it could make you a very rich woman? People from miles around, from all over the world, would pay dearly for such an effective cure. I could help you make them aware of your talent for healing."

Gary couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Just a minute ago, you were calling it useless. Just a day ago you were calling her a witch." He pointed at Nessa, as if his finger were some kind of magic wand that could make her go away. "How can you--" But Father Ezekiel cleared his throat, and, when Gary looked at him, inclined his head toward Morgelyn. Let her fight her own battles. He dropped his hand back down to his side. But if Nessa thought for one minute that she could fool anyone in this room, he was ready to interfere.

"I will not deny help to any that ask for it," Morgelyn said, and she clutched the empty mug to her as if it were a shield. "But the dragon's wort does not belong to me. It belongs to all of the village, and we will, together, see that it is fairly given to all those in need."

A genuine frown creased Nessa's features; she seemed perplexed at Morgelyn's reaction. "You could become a rich woman."

"No," Morgelyn said quietly, then louder: "No. I have seen what your kind of wealth may do to a woman's heart, and I want no part of it."

"And if there is any wealth to be gained here, we certainly do not want it filtered through you." Everyone turned to Fergus, who stood back by the fire with Cecily. Gary rolled his eyes at him--Fergus was nothing if not consistent--and Ezekiel gave his head a disgusted shake, but Morgelyn's mouth twisted into a smile. Maybe, Gary thought, because things were almost back to what passed for normal around here. 

Almost.

"I really think you should go now," he told Nessa when he turned back to her, and just to emphasize the point, he stepped toward her, backing her into the doorway.

"It could have been wonderful between us," Nessa whispered.

"No," he said with a tight jaw. "No, it couldn't have." 

One more fiery flash lit her eyes, then Nessa swept her skirts in a broad arc and turned to leave, ignoring Fergus when he called, "And you will need to hire a new maid!"

Gary watched her walk away with the obsequious physician, wanting more. He wanted to wring an apology out of Nessa, not for himself but for Morgelyn, for everything she'd gone through that was still so clearly written on her face, her hand. He even started to go after her, but Morgelyn followed him through the doorway, and as they stood watching Nessa's entourage leave the village, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it tight, just the way Marissa did when she wanted to tell him something, or warn him without words. 

He shook his head. "She can't just get away with all this."

"She takes nothing with her."

He looked down at Morgelyn, wondering if she felt as used up as he did. "No, I meant--"

"I do know what you meant. And I tell you again, she takes nothing with her. We are all alive, and we are free, thanks to you." 

"It wasn't just me. They--my friends--" Gary gestured into the cottage, where they could see the glow of the Dragon's Eye, still held tight in Tamsyn's sticky grip. "They were here, somehow. And Fergus helped, and you--" He grinned down at her. "You're a pretty tough cookie, you know that?"

That got a laugh, even though it was an exhausted one. "A tough cookie?"

"It's a compliment. It means you were strong. In some ways," he added, looking after Nessa, "you were stronger than I could have been."

"It is not easy to be a woman in this world," Morgelyn said slowly, "and there are many different kinds of strength. Maybe with time, Nessa's anger will ease its hold on her heart. And if not, we will stand against her. Together."

They scanned the village, spread out before them. Most of the people were going on about their business; some were even taking wood from the smoldering bonfire pile to their homes. Gary thought about what Morgelyn had said. He wasn't sure he could trust this resolution, but maybe that was what trust was about. Taking some things on faith. Things like the future. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

A frown chased its way across Morgelyn's face, like a thin cloud across the sun. "I believe so. Simon does care far more for Lara than Mark ever did for Anna. And he does not want to raise those children alone. He may not ever apologize, but I do not think he will be so foolish again, especially with Father Ezekiel here."

He let out a sigh of heartfelt relief. "If you say so, then, I believe you."

"And yet," Morgelyn said with a sigh of her own, "part of my heart wishes it were not true." She looked up at him, blinking in the sunlight. "For now, you will leave us, will you not?"

He studied a very interesting group of pebbles on the ground, and toed them with the soft sole of his shoe. No, it actually wasn't his shoe, was it? "I guess so."

"Well." Squaring her shoulders, Morgelyn put on a smile that was a little bit forced. "There is always some bitter with the sweet, or there is nothing gained but a toothache." 

"That another one of your grandmother's sayings?"

"No, 'tis my own, a new one. What do you think?"

He grinned at her as they turned back to the door. "I think it needs a little work."

After a little more fussing over Tolan and Lara, they said their good-byes, Morgelyn promising to come back later and help Father Ezekiel distribute the dragon's wort potion. "Perhaps it would be better if we called it a tisane," Ezekiel said with a droll twist of his mouth. Robert's satisfied snore seemed to settle the matter.

Gary retrieved the Dragon's Eye from Tamsyn, who'd been showing it to Tolan while they played with Cat. The little boy was looking more animated by the minute, and he grinned sleepily at Gary but didn't seem to recognize him. Gary wondered what he'd become, what Tamsyn would become, and what would become of all of them. It wasn't his to know, but hopefully, it would be something better than what they'd been headed for twenty-four hours ago. 

Cat seemed to know that they were leaving; it sprang out of Tolan's lap and stalked over to stand between Gary and Morgelyn. Fergus and Cecily were already out the door when Gary offered his hand to Father Ezekiel, and found himself out of things to say. The leap of faith Ezekiel had made had been huge. He finally settled for: "Thank you. I really mean it, you--thank you."

Raising an eyebrow at the tabby who meowed up at him, Father Ezekiel shook Gary's hand. Those intense brown eyes peered back at Gary and, like Crumb, Ezekiel seemed to know a whole lot more than he'd been told. "I am the one who owes you thanks, my son. Safe journey to you."

Gary scanned the room, making sure that his gaze took in Morgelyn along with the sick people and their families. "Take care of them," he said, and Ezekiel nodded.

Simon didn't turn from Lara as they left, but he said stiffly, so quietly that Gary could barely hear him, "Thank you."

Morgelyn nodded. "You are welcome."


	24. Chapter 24

_I am the Voice of the Past that will always be  
Filled with my sorrows and blood in my fields  
I am the Voice of the Future  
Bring me your peace, bring me your peace  
And my wounds they will heal._  
~ Brendan Graham

"Well." Fingering the edge of her sleeve, Morgelyn met Gary's eyes for a split second, then looked away, first toward the willow tree, then out at the waterfall, just off to her right. Its rushing noise drowned out the afternoon's birdsong.

"Yeah." Gary rolled the Dragon's Eye between his palms, and tried not to notice the colored light dancing inside it. It wasn't as if he knew what to say either. Somehow, "See you in six hundred and fifty years," didn't sound right, and besides, it wasn't true. Not exactly, anyway. 

Fergus was standing next to Morgelyn, but he'd been looking over at Cecily, who sat a few yards away under the willow, cooing at Cat. The tabby seemed perfectly content to be fussed over, and Cecily fluttered a wave in their direction before relaxing back against the tree trunk, half-hidden by the fronds. The picture of pastoral bliss, Gary thought, and wondered if Cat was planning on making the round trip with him.

"You definitely look more at home in that." Fergus frowned, his wave taking in Gary's attire. It seemed best to wear his own clothes for this, but while the jeans and sweater felt wonderfully familiar, and infinitely better against his skin than the rougher medieval garb, it almost felt as if they were the costumes, and not the stuff he'd worn for the past few days. "That is to say, your own clothes suit you. But they are strange, my friend."

Gary shrugged. "It's what I'm used to."

Morgelyn placed a hand over the Dragon's Eye. "It has been calling you for hours now. Your friends need you. You should go."

He nodded, then looked down at the crystal ball. Going home was what he'd wanted all along, but now that it came to it, he wasn't sure he could leave. He wasn't sure how, for starters, though he had a feeling that the powers in charge of newspapers, miracles, and the Dragon's Eye were about to take care of that. But it was more than that. After all, it wasn't every day that a guy played the rope in a tug-of-war between two sets of friends--identical friends--half a millennium apart. The thing was, he knew it was okay to leave; Morgelyn and Fergus had their whole lives ahead of them. But if everything went well, he'd be home in a few minutes, with his whole life in front of him, and theirs would be over, as they had been for six centuries. 

"Gary?" Morgelyn asked softly, and he had a feeling she'd read him the way Marissa always did, that she knew exactly what he'd been thinking. 

He flashed her a weak grin. "I'll miss you." He looked away from her suddenly-bright eyes, around at the river and the forest. "I'll miss all of this, I think."

"Not the rocks and the cellars, I would suppose," said Fergus.

"Or the caves," Gary added fervently. He frowned at the bruises that stained Morgelyn's face. "You sure you'll be all right?"

She brushed the bandage on her left hand with the fingers of her right. "I am certain. Lara and Tolan and Robert are already recovering, and the rest of the sick villagers will have the potion by nightfall. They owe their lives to you, Gary, to your friends and that ball, and--"

"And you," Gary finished. "Both of you." 

While Fergus shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Morgelyn reached out a finger and traced the lines of the Dragon's Eye's base. "Aon d'amharc glan," she murmured. "One of clearest sight. That is you, Gary. That is what it meant. Tairngreacht , Grandmother would have called it. The gift of prophecy. I believe you were given that gift because you understand people's hearts. You have faith in them, and the courage to speak your mind when it matters most."

Gary cleared his throat. "I didn't do this alone, you know."

"Your friends." Her finger moved to the globe, where the light still swirled.

"There and here. All along you believed a dragon slayer would come. And you--" Gary turned to Fergus. "You had the guts to stick around, when I know you would have rather gone your own way."

"Yes, well, you know the life of a bard." Hands behind his back, Fergus bounced on the balls of his feet. "Open highways, constant travel."

"What are you saying?" Gary felt a twist of panic in his stomach. Would he take off again and leave Morgelyn alone?

"But it is nothing without a friend or two to come home to," Fergus amended with a sly glance over at Cecily. "And it is a life, perhaps, for a younger man than I. Perhaps more than one curse was broken today."

Gary said, thinking of Kelyn, "Cecily's better for you than any road trip, okay? Don't let her get away. I have a feeling the two of you have a long and happy future together. And take care of this for me," he said, pointing at the Dragon's Eye.

Fergus frowned, perplexed. "Morgelyn says you need that to get home."

"I needed it to get here in the first place. Kelyn, that girl who gave it to me, got it because it was passed down through her family for a long, long time. I think she might be a descendant of yours. She definitely has your eyes. And a whole lot of freckles." 

Fergus frowned. "Oh?" Then his eyes grew round. "Oh!" 

"This'll probably come out in the wash. You know, when you're fishing," Gary went on, nodding toward the river. "So take good care of it. And stick around for a while. Morgelyn's gonna need a friend." Morgelyn gave a little snort. "Well, you will," Gary told her.

"She has that," Fergus assured him. "She has that indeed. And if you should ever need--well--perhaps this will come in handy." Fergus held out the same bejeweled dagger he'd tried to give Gary earlier that morning. 

"I can't--" Gary started, but then he saw the hopeful expression in Fergus's eyes, and remembered how he'd offered to sell that dagger to him at their first meeting. "Okay," he finally acquiesced, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket with the well-worn, several-days-old copy of the Sun-Times. The fact that the story about his supposed drowning was still there was the one thing pushing him to leave.

Fergus surprised Gary by throwing an arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. "Take care, my friend," he said as he stepped back. "Thank you."

Morgelyn held out the small jar of ointment that she'd urged on him for his bruises. "Perhaps you have a better cure in your own time, but if not, you will need something to help you heal."

Gary took it with a grin. "It'll be perfect. Thanks." 

He started to put it in his pocket, but Morgelyn said, "You must take this as well." She held out a pin that was identical to the one that fastened her cloak. The not-quite-closed silver circlet was dotted with a couple of green stones; both the circlet and the pin that went through it were carved with Celtic knotwork. "It was my grandmother's."

"I can't," he said, but when he'd stowed away the jar of ointment, she pressed the pin into his hand.

"It is not for you. It doesn't match your traveling garments." Smiling, she curled his fingers over the treasure. "My grandfather and my father, the last time they came safely home from the sea, brought these to us from Ireland. I would never give up my own, and Mother's stayed with her. But Grandmother would want your friend to have hers. It is a thanks for sending us help." She squeezed his hand tight. "For sending us the bravest of dragon slayers."

Gary could see Marissa's smile in the one Morgelyn was trying to force. He stowed the pin safely in the pocket with the knife. "I think she'll like it very much."

"And finally, I do not know that it is as practical a protection as that dagger," Morgelyn said as she tucked a sprig of piney-looking stuff into the top outside pocket of Gary's coat, "but juniper is said to ensure a safe journey. And we certainly wish that for you."

"Morgelyn." Gary caught her hand when she would have withdrawn it. "I'm glad I came. For everything that happened, I--" He swallowed hard, still haunted by what could have been. "I wish I could have done more," he said, glancing at her other hand.

She shook her head. "It will heal. Far worse could have happened this day." 

He couldn't let her just brush this off. "You had more faith in me than anyone I've ever helped. And I wasn't what you expected, I know that. It means a lot. I don't really have anything I can give you. All my stuff would probably get you into trouble."

"You saved my life and the only place I will ever belong. There is nothing greater that you could give me than your friendship."

"You sure have that."

"I do not suppose that you can send us some sign when you reach home," she said in a choked voice, "but I have faith that you will do so safely." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, and he caught her up in a hug. "Remember us," she whispered in his ear. "Tell our story. That would be the best gift you could offer."

He recalled what she'd told him once, how stories kept the truth alive, through centuries of change. "I'll never forget," he promised, then, after a few silent seconds, reluctantly released his hold. 

Patting her hand on his jacket, Morgelyn looked down for a moment, blinking hard. "This should be relatively simple, and I believe, this time, that we will not need to send you over the waterfall."

Gary grinned, relieved. "I don't have to get wet?"

Fergus cackled. "Of course you have to get wet. You must, however, go under the waterfall instead of over it."

"I know you don't like it," Morgelyn told Gary when he turned his best puppy-dog face on her, "but I believe water is the key. 'Tis the path that allowed you to come, and the one you should use to leave."

"Feels like I just got dried out from the last trip." 

"Your journey will not take long, and at the end of it you will be home." She stepped with him into the rushing river, and gave him a little shove toward the waterfall. "Home safe--" Her voice caught and Gary turned around, swooped her up in one last crushing hug, not knowing if the water on his face was from the river or something else. It hardly seemed to matter. But even as he thought that, even as he held on, the Dragon's Eye burned between them, its heat penetrating his jacket and sweater right through to his skin. Cat yowled from its perch on the river bank. "Trust the magic. Go," Morgelyn insisted, and pushed him away. 

Gary waded backward into the waterfall, watching his friends as the spill hit him in a freezing baptism, waving until the roaring curtain of water blurred them out of his sight, until all that was left was the water and the light he held. "Home," he whispered, and wrapped his hands around the Dragon's Eye. Metal and glass were the only solidity, all that he had to hold onto as the water pushed him down, down--

\--his feet slipped out from under him, but he never hit the bottom of the river bed--

\--he was falling and there was nothing left of the world but water--

It pressed him deeper and deeper, fathoms deep, until the wet clothes weren't clinging, the metal and glass were gone, light and breath were extinguished, and all that was left of Gary Hobson was the will to get home.  


* * *

  
_A friend is someone who won't stop until he finds you--  
and brings you home._  
~ due South

"It's been hours." Chuck plopped down on the bench next to Marissa. She didn't answer. She couldn't. Well aware of how much time had passed, she knew what direction his thoughts and Crumb's must be running. "Marissa, what if--"

"Please don't say it." Now more than ever she couldn't face the worst possibility of all.

"What if he never comes back?"

"He will, he has to." But her voice broke, betraying her fear. "You saw what happened. It meant something."

"And I can also see that there's no Gary here."

"I don't know where--maybe--" She couldn't say all the maybes, couldn't voice her fear that it was over, all of it, and this had been the last time Gary had ever needed them to help. That what had happened on the pier had been some kind of good-bye. But it hadn't felt like a good-bye, or at least at the time it hadn't seemed that way. She was losing count of all the times she'd changed her mind, rationalized her hopes. 

An intersection of time and place. 

_Intertwined in time of need..._

"Maybe there's a girl there," Chuck said, startling her out of the thought loop that she'd been stuck on since the rain had stopped. 

"What?" The air was fresh and cool now, and she was dimly aware of more people in the park, laughter and wheels spinning on cement.

"Maybe Gar finally found a woman who can put up with him, and he decided to stay. Like _Brigadoon_ , when the guy goes back to the town in the mist and he just leaves his buddy for his true love. Poof! Never seen again."

"I know the ending of _Brigadoon_ , Chuck." Marissa clutched at the wet edge of the bench. 

"I'm just sayin'."

"Anybody want a pretzel?" Crumb returned, trailing the smell of hot bread and salt. Marissa shook her head. "That thing still puttin' on a show?" he asked through a mouthful.

"Yes, it is." She directed her pointed words at Chuck. He'd been the one to tell her that there were bits of that colored light, faded but still present, left in the crystal ball. She could feel the last traces of its warmth, a tangible whisper in her hand. A tiny thread of connection.

"It's nothing like it was earlier," Chuck retorted. "I thought you said this would bring him back."

"I thought once he'd helped them, it would. We can try it again, can't we? Crumb?"

He sighed. "Once I get home, remind me that I gotta look for something I lost."

"What's that?" Chuck asked.

"My marbles."

"Would both of you stop?" Though she was perfectly aware of how tired and snappish her voice sounded, she was past caring. "This isn't funny. Gary _needs_ us. You both saw what happened."

"We did," Crumb said slowly, easing himself down on the bench next to her. "And I'm not denying it was something out of the ordinary. Way out of the ordinary. But we've tried it again and again. It just doesn't work any more, and seems like maybe, as hard as it is to say this..." The paper wrapper of the pretzel crinkled, and then she heard Spike lapping up whatever was left of it. "Maybe that's all there was, Marissa."

"I don't believe that." Maybe this magic, whatever it was, had lost its hold on the others, but there was still something there, there had to be. These men, these boys, that one man--they were going to break her heart. She no longer knew what was real and what she was imagining. All she could feel was tired, empty of all but one last, tiny spark of hope, the same one she'd kept burning all this time. Before she knew what she was doing, she was up off the bench, turning her feet toward the pier.

"Hey, where're you going?" She could feel the rough touch of residual salt crystals when Crumb grabbed her wrist. 

"I can't just sit around waiting for something to happen. I'm going back out there." She thrust her hand, the one holding the scrying glass, out toward the pier. As surely as she stood there, as surely as her heart was breaking, she knew this wasn't the end of days of hope. She could feel the strands of metal digging into her palm. Gary's initials were still there, she was sure of it. "We're not done."

Gary wasn't done here, in Chicago. She needed him; they all needed him. She wasn't ready to stop helping him, and he wasn't ready to stop helping people, no matter how much he griped and complained. He hadn't been ready four days ago on the dock and he wasn't ready now. And she needed something, someone, like that to believe in; something bigger than all of them, some power that made sure things could come out _right_ once in a while. But more than that, she needed a friend, the one who'd always been there for her and cared about her. "I--I need Gary," she choked.

This time she couldn't stop the tears. Bowing her head to hide them didn't do any good either; Crumb was there in a split second, holding her tight. She needed to lean, she needed someone. The crystal ball pushed hard against her chest.

"Crumb!" Chuck's exclamation from somewhere down the path startled them both. Crumb pulled away, leaving Marissa swaying against Spike. 

"Stay here," Crumb commanded, and they were gone, leaving her with a warm, living ball of crystal and a very confused guide dog.  


* * *

  
_But they're waiting just the same,  
With their flashlights and their semaphores  
And I act like I have faith, and like that faith never ends  
But I really just have friends._  
~Dar Williams

Water again.

Gary's consciousness slammed back from whatever alternate dimension it had escaped to, fragmented and clutching at the first sensation it registered.

Water. Not air. 

Need to breathe--but not water.

Need light. 

His eyes flew open, but the water was so murky that he couldn't see his hands. Then he realized that they weren't holding anything anyway. The Dragon's Eye was gone. 

All there was was water. 

And now panic.

Don't panic. Swim.

Breathe.

Not yet, don't breathe water.

Up. Where was up?

Light. There was light, faint but glimmering above him.

_Remember us..._

His heart stabbed in his chest.

But don't look back. 

There was no back to look to.

He pulled his arms through the water, kicking toward the light.

_Remember._

There should have been a yell or some huge sound. He should have announced his return with more than just an awkward splash of lake water. But, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, black spots still popping and dancing in his vision, it was all Gary could do at first to tread water, to keep his head above the surface long enough to suck in air. 

Air that tasted of smog and diesel; air that smacked him in the face with a thousand unnatural scents and proclaimed, even before he spun himself around and saw the skyline, "Welcome to Chicago."

Welcome home. 

The pier was still many yards away; he was far enough out that he'd have to swim back. But he didn't mind, not even when every muscle in his body protested that they'd already had plenty of work out time, thank you very much, and fully intended to take a vacation. Not until he was home, well and truly.

The figures on the dock came into clearer focus as he stroked through the water. There were the usual joggers and two more stationary forms. One of those caught sight of him and started jumping up and waving his arms. Two men, one small and slight, the other built like a brick oven, and the voices so familiar. He'd just heard them, sort of, but it couldn't be, especially not--

Don't think, swim.

He kicked the distance to their outstretched arms with the last of his strength. Utterly spent, he could do little more than allow himself to be dragged out of the water. He barely managed to put his feet in front of him so that they braced him against the cement wall of the pier and prevented further scrapes. Hands struggled to set him upright, to keep their hold on his dripping jacket, while Gary blinked and shivered and swiped at the streaming water in his eyes, into the totally astonished faces of Zeke Crumb and--holy shit.

"Chuck?" But how could Chuck be here? Chuck was in Hollywood. Gary's stomach clutched around a new fear. Had he come back at the wrong time?

But Morgelyn had told him to trust the magic.

"Gar!" Chuck had hold of both his elbows and was shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. "Gar, where'd you come from? Hell, like it matters. You're alive!"

"I--yeah--" Gary managed weakly, still struggling for breath and solidity in the midst of his temporal displacement. It wasn't made a whole lot easier when Chuck threw his arms around Gary's chest, squeezing so tight that Gary could feel the imprint of each individual jewel in the hilt of Fergus's dagger against his still-tender ribs. "Chuck, c'mon." He could barely squeak it out. 

"You're alive!" Chuck repeated as he stepped back. "Crumb, Gar's--uh-oh." 

Still blinking, Gary saw what Chuck meant. Crumb stood frozen a few feet away, his face going grey. "Crumb!" Gary hoped he wouldn't need to remember CPR. Things were still a little mixed up in his head. "Hey, you okay?"

"Hobson?" 

Despite his fireplug build, Crumb swayed in a slight gust of wind, and Gary caught his arm to steady him. "Whoa, don't go in there. You know you can't swim." 

That seemed to bring Crumb out of his shock. "Hell, it's good to see you." He pumped Gary's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, laughed and shook his head. "We were sure you were a gonner, Hobson. But she was right."

"You did it?" Chuck asked. 

Gary turned to stare at him. "What?" He was still trying to get used to everything; the city air, the familiar faces attached to the right clothes, the fact that he was hearing every word they spoke without any intervening filters, but something still wasn't right, things were still too disjointed.

"Whatever it was you had to do. The witch thing. Hey, you're not carrying the plague, are you?"

"Nah, the plague ended a couple of years ago, and besides, we found the plant she needed." Gary shook his head, goggling at Chuck. "How did you know about that?"

"Well, Marissa said--wait a minute, a plant?"

"Marissa?" Suddenly Gary knew why things weren't clicking into place. He snapped his head from side to side. "Where--"

"A plant?"

"Chuck, where is she?" Gary grabbed him by the upper arms.

"All this was for a _plant_?"

"Crumb!" Releasing Chuck, Gary looking desperately up and down the pier. 

"Bench." Crumb pointed, but Gary didn't need directions. Slipping on the wet pavement in his hurry, he somehow managed to make his legs move, pushing them faster when he saw the solitary figure on the park walkway, huddled into a raincoat even though the sun was shining. His pace slowed as his mind kicked into high gear.

She hadn't been wearing a raincoat before.

Chuck had had time to get to Chicago.

Crumb looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

And Marissa was holding the Dragon's Eye, her face turned expectantly in his direction, but her eyes were red and puffy and though she lacked the bruises Morgelyn had had, she looked just as used up. All at once Gary was bereft of words, the full weight of what this must have meant to everyone here, now, crushing him with its force. They'd thought he was a gonner, Crumb had said. They'd thought he was dead.

But Marissa had it. She had the Dragon's Eye, so somehow she'd known.

"Hey," he said softly when he was still a few yards off. He might as well have shouted her name in her ear without warning. She jumped, her mouth went round, and she clutched the Dragon's Eye in tight. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. They both stood frozen like statues. He counted five heartbeats before he found his voice. "Did you call?" he asked in no more than a whisper. "Whoever has the Dragon's Eye can call for a dragon slayer. That's why I'm here."

"Here?" 

"A knight in soggy armor, at your service." The joke was coming to him, but the humor, the volume, was not. He took a step closer. "Are you in trouble, m'lady? Do you need any dragons slain?"

How a tentative smile could look like the sun, he couldn't have said. But Marissa's warmed him right through every layer of sopping wet clothing. "No dragons," she whispered. One hand uncurled from its clutch on the crystal ball and stretched out in his direction. "I just need my friend."

"I'm here." He seized her hand and squeezed it tight. "Right here."

"G--Gary?" He knew it was really, finally, over, that he was well and truly home, when Marissa choked out his name on a sob. "Oh my God, _Gary_."

It didn't matter that this hug squeezed him within an inch of his life. It felt good. "Thank you," he whispered over and over, in counterpoint to her repetition of his name. "You got me home, thank you."

"Not just me." She pulled back a little so she could speak without being muffled by his jacket, and didn't even seem to notice that she'd dropped the Dragon's Eye onto the wet grass at their feet. Somehow, it didn't surprise Gary at all that Cat was there to paw at it. "It was all of us," Marissa told him. "Chuck and Crumb and Josh and Betsy and Kelyn and Aunt Gracie. And you. You came home." She reached up and touched his face, as if she wanted to be sure it was him.

"Course I did."

Her hand dropped down to his arm, and her nose crinkled up. "You smell like the sea."

"It was a long trip." There were footsteps behind him. "I got you all wet," Gary noted ruefully. 

"It doesn't matter." She brushed water off her face that hadn't come from Lake Michigan. "It doesn't matter, it worked, you're home."

"Yeah, home," Gary echoed when she wrapped her arms around him again and held on for dear life. Chuck thumped him on the back, Crumb patted Marissa's shoulder, and Gary stopped the Dragon's Eye from rolling away by trapping it under his boot. He grinned at Chuck over Marissa's head. 

"You guys mind if I stay a while?"  


* * *

  
_With the dawning of this Love and the voice of this Calling  
We shall not cease from our exploration  
And the end of all our exploring  
Will be to arrive where we started  
And to know the place for the first time._  
~ T. S. Eliot

In the end, what saved Gary were three of the most powerful words in the English language.

"Witness Protection Program."

Everyone turned to stare at Crumb, who was sitting on the mission chair. He'd barely spoken two words since they'd arrived at McGinty's, and now, after an overwrought reunion with his parents, after the hottest, longest shower Gary had taken in his entire life, after he'd told the _Reader's Digest_ version of his story and his friends had told theirs, Crumb looked the least worn out, though no less spooked than anybody else. 

Gary frowned at him, leaning forward from his spot on the sofa where his parents had him squished in the middle of the Hobson sandwich. His mom was holding his hand, like she was afraid that he'd get up and leave any minute. "What do you mean?"

"How else are you gonna explain this?" Crumb waved a hand at the Dragon's Eye and Fergus's little dagger, which sat together on Gary's coffee table. "You were lucky that we could sneak you through the back door here a little while ago, but sooner or later people'll find out you aren't dead, and they'll want to know why. Especially a police force that mounted a two-day water search and rescue. You won't be able to pull your hocus-pocus song and dance with them."

Something about the way he said that made Gary wonder. Actually, all of this was making him wonder. Crumb, who always said he didn't want to know, seemed to be an accepted part of the team.

"Won't the reporters be able to check official records and stuff?" Chuck asked. He was perched on the arm of the other chair. "They'll know if we're lying."

Marissa was curled up in the same chair with Cat on her lap. She sighed. "I didn't even think about all the problems that would happen when you came back, Gary." 

At Gary's side, his mother bristled. "You could have thought about how we felt."

Gary nudged his mom with his elbow before she could go any further. He knew she was pissed that no one had told her what was going on, but he understood what Marissa had been able to tell him of her reasons during the car ride back, and he was grateful that his friends had tried to spare his parents' feelings. He wasn't going to let them catch fallout for it now. He'd explain to his mom later. More than once, probably. "Chuck's right," he said quickly. "It sounds like a good idea, but will people believe it?"

"I'll make 'em believe it," Crumb said.

"What about Sergeant Piovani, though?" Marissa asked, and Gary thought she looked downright nervous. "She won't, not unless she has some kind of proof."

"Don't worry about it. There are some official people who owe me very official favors." 

Crumb met Gary's eyes, and Gary knew. "You're talking about Marley." But his parents were there, and he could feel his dad's interest perk up. "You saved the--you--"

"Ooo," his dad said, "Crumb, were you CIA? Black ops?"

"Somethin' like that." Crumb brushed it off with a wave of his hand. "Anyways, I never did call in that marker. Figures that when I do, it's because of you again. So we'll make it official on the federal level. Fishman, that okay with you?"

"As long as I get the movie rights," Chuck said. "Make it so Gar was involved in a museum heist. You could be the next Indiana Jones, buddy." He got up and strolled over to the kitchen.

"Witness Protection Program it is. Thanks," Gary told Crumb, and Crumb nodded, just like...

Just like Father Ezekiel when Gary'd told him to take care of everyone. Had he? He leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes. He let the comfortable buzz of familiar voices float around him. His dad got up and joined Chuck at the fridge; Gary could hear the spray of beer bottles opening. 

"Gar, you want one?" Without opening his eyes, he stuck out a hand. A couple seconds later a glass bottle, blissfully cold, was placed in it. "Throw a midget and a Maypole into that story of yours," Chuck said, "and you'd have a Men Without Hats video. Too bad nobody'll ever believe the truth." 

Gary didn't open his eyes when he took a pull of the beer. It was cold. It fizzed. It was heaven.

"You want one, Crumb?" asked Chuck.

"Think I need more than a beer," Crumb muttered. "A priest. Yeah, right." 

"Father Zeke," Chuck said cheerfully. "I would have paid good money to see you in a dress, Crumb. How 'bout you, Gar? You dazzle all the babes in your tights?"

He opened one eye to glare. "No, but you did." 

Crumb joined the general laughter as he pushed himself up out of the chair. "Well, I think at least a double is in order. Anybody else want anything from downstairs?"

"Food." Gary rubbed his stubble-free face. "We got anything fried around here? Anything American?" 

"I can arrange that," his mom said, and squeezed his hand one more time before she finally released it and stood. She looked down at him with a strange light in her eyes. "When I think that a couple of hours ago I was sure I'd never cook for you again, I could just--oh, Gary."

"I know, Mom. I'm sorry."

" _You_ don't need to be." He didn't miss the look she shot Marissa, whose flinch meant she knew exactly what was going on. But then his mom turned back to Gary and saw the set of his jaw. Her slight scowl melted. "Nobody needs to be. Oh, I'm just so glad my boy is home."

"Aw, Mom, don't cry." Gary got up and gave her another hug. "She tried to tell you. Cut her some slack, okay?" he whispered into her ear. She nodded, and went downstairs with Crumb. 

"Maybe we should print out leaflets," Chuck was telling Dad. "You know, so Gar doesn't have to tell the cover story over and over again. You know how he is. Thinks his nose is gonna grow if he has to fudge the truth a little bit. There'll be plenty of people at that thing tomorrow night."

"Party," Dad said, and his voice boomed through the loft. "Definitely a celebration. All the same people are still invited, it'll just be a lot more festive than we planned."

Gary plopped back down on the couch, at the end closest to Marissa. She stroked Cat's back methodically, and the tabby had its eyes half-closed in blissful appreciation. "What is this party thing they've got going?" he asked.

She shrugged, then, after a moment's silence, said, "She's your mother, Gary. And I can stand up for myself. This isn't a witch hunt."

"I know. I know. It's just--" He laced his fingers and rubbed one thumb across the other palm. "You look so much like--she looked so much like you. And so much went wrong for them, so fast, it's hard to believe it won't happen again."

"Hard to let go?"

"Yeah."

Her hand went still on Cat's back. "Does she know?" she asked. "Does Morgelyn know you're okay, that you're safe?"

Gary reached over to the coffee table and picked up the Dragon's Eye. Colors and lights flared and danced for a little bit, then faded off with a sigh that he only heard with his inner ear. "Guess it still had a little bit of magic left in it," he said. "Yeah, I think she knows."

Some of the tension went out of her shoulders. "I'm sure they're all right. That they were all right..." She trailed off, a frown on her face. 

Gary knew how she felt. He was still having trouble with the verb tenses, with not seeing double every time he looked at Marissa, Chuck, and Crumb. With all of it. "I guess I'll never know for sure." 

"We do know something. While you were in the shower earlier, I called Josh Gardner, the archeologist I told you about. He and his friend have Kelyn's--Morgelyn's book," she corrected herself. "They said there's no story in there about a witch hunt anymore. There's just the plant lore and the dragon's tale."

"Great," Gary settled back in with a grunt. His various aches and bruises were still making their presence known. "Two more people I'll have to explain this to. What am I going to tell a couple of scientists? They'll never believe the truth." 

"People can surprise you, Gary." 

"They usually do." Speaking of which..."Crumb knows about the paper, doesn't he? Did you have to tell him to get him to help you out?"

"Not exactly." A wry smile appeared on her face. "Apparently he's known about it for a while. He'll keep your secret, Gary. Possibly even from you, if you know what I mean." 

"Yeah." Crumb was less of a mystery to him now because of Father Ezekiel. Maybe it was only fair that it went both ways. 

"Anyway," Marissa went on, shifting and putting her feet on the floor, "I had Josh check something else. There still is a village called Gwenyllan in Cornwall. It's very small and isolated, but it's there. During the Renaissance it had some kind of a hospital that was famous for its miracle cures. There were waves of the plague that swept through England in Shakespeare's time, but no one in that village was ever affected by it."

"Shakespeare's time. Great." His voice came out as flat as he felt. He'd used up every ounce of himself in the past couple of days, and it was going to take a while to recharge. "What about Morgelyn's time, and Fergus's?"

"I think you can assume things turned out all right for them, if that much is true. You can't know," she added when he didn't answer. "You have to have faith that it's okay." Cat meowed in agreement.

He let out a breath that had been tucked away ever since he'd walked into the river, a couple of hours, a half dozen centuries, earlier. "I hope so."

"You did a good thing, Gary. A great thing."

"I had a lot of help." He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out the pin Morgelyn had given him. "Hold out your hand."

"What's this?" Marissa asked when he placed the pin on her palm. She explored it with her fingers, a tiny frown of concentration creasing her forehead. 

"It's a cloak pin. For you. Morgelyn sent it. Kind of a thank you."

Marissa closed her fingers over it and smiled, then blinked back tears. "I'm very glad you're back, Gary. It was so hard."

"You gonna cry again, too?"

She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "You're going to tell me I can't?"

"I wouldn't dare." He found the tissues on the end table where his mom had left them, and handed the whole box to her. In the silence that followed, he caught the tail end of what his dad was telling Chuck. "A Dixieland band?" Gary asked Marissa. "Here at McGinty's?"

Marissa shook her head. "Don't ask."

Crumb's favor-dealing did, indeed, work wonders. A little behind-the-scenes paperwork, and voilá, Gary had been living incognito in Detroit for the past few days. It worked on everyone except a few people that he either wouldn't or couldn't lie to. But the rest bought it: Patrick, the people who worked at the bar, the press, even the Chicago police sergeant who wanted to grill Gary like a well-done bratwurst. 

The search and rescue had all been a misunderstanding, Crumb helped Gary to explain when he was called into the station house the next day. Those in charge of the investigation had to justify the expense and man power of the search they'd made, and Sergeant Piovani said that she wanted to see Gary's walking, talking carcass in the flesh. It took every ounce of will he possessed not to squirm as he told her the story Crumb had put together: because he had been told by the FBI not to let on, even to his friends and family, where he was going, he'd had to skip town. Right in the middle of his conversation with Marissa. On the pier. He'd thrown the crystal ball into the water because some antiquities thieves were after it, hot on his trail. But now it was safe. In a safe. Somewhere. Gary couldn't tell her where. Didn't want to jeopardize international relations.

It took two rounds of those answers, and a letter on cream-colored stationery with the FBI seal at the top. When Piovani let him leave, he made a fervent wish that the paper would keep him out of her jurisdiction for a long, long time. Like forever.

The party was a raucous success, but it was all kind of a blur to Gary, except for huddled conferences with Marissa, Chuck, Crumb, and Aunt Gracie. Patrick kept interrupting them to slap Gary on the back and offer potato skins. With Marissa's urging, Gary talked to Kelyn Gillespie, who'd been nearly as effusive in her welcome as Patrick, and the archaeologists from the University of Chicago. Betsy Cooper seemed more interested in how he'd been able to understand Medieval languages than in what had actually happened, but Gary had the feeling that was because she wasn't entirely comfortable with the story he was telling. Josh Gardner grinned from ear to ear and said something about changing the topic of his doctoral thesis committee to folk beliefs and herbal lore. Gary was just relieved when Aunt Gracie saved him by asking him for a dance. 

Eventually, in a couple of weeks, things got back to some kind of normal.

Eventually his parents got tired of trailing him everywhere he went and found a reason to go back to Hickory, something about the garden club and a curling tournament, but they still called him every night. Eventually Crumb stopped offering to go with him every time the paper sent him out into the city. Eventually Marissa quit finding excuses to touch his hand or his arm every time he walked in a room, as if she had to reassure herself that he was real. Eventually Patrick worked up the nerve to ask Kelyn out on a date. And eventually, of course, Chuck had to go back to Hollywood, but not before he'd promised to come back for a Bears game.

That sort of normal was fine with Gary, who hung Fergus's dagger on the wall next to his snowshoes and put the Dragon's Eye on his bookshelf. But everything that had happened to him left a strange aftertaste, and even "eventually" didn't take care of the niggling fears that kept creeping up on him at night, in his dreams. The brick walls of his loft dissolved into grey stone, harsh voices shouted commands and insults and malice, and his friends called out for help, but he wasn't sure which friends, or how to help them. Sometimes he wondered if Morgelyn's plea to remember them had turned into a curse. 

He couldn't go back to sleep after those nightmares. He would get up and page through the book Kelyn had given him, familiar if older than the one he'd seen in Cornwall. Nothing in it ever changed. That was the problem. He wanted to know that everything had turned out all right for them, even though he'd left because he'd been sure it would.

Nothing he could find in Chicago was enough. He spent some time at the library, but the history books were all about kings and queens and nobility. Nessa's kind of people. Nobody seemed to know much about the other kinds of people, the everyday people who did extraordinary things. 

Like live long, healthy, happy lives.

Weeks later, right near Halloween, another nightmare came calling, and he had to check every nook and cranny of his loft before he was sure there hadn't really been a fire, that the smoky scent that still lingered in his nostrils wasn't real, and that Morgelyn hadn't been calling to him from somewhere down in the alley. 

His alarm clock glowed red in the darkness. Five-fifteen. He still had a good hour of sleep left, if only he could get it. Resolute, he forced himself to lie back on the pillows. Real pillows, he reminded himself, and tried to lull himself back to sleep by counting his blessings. Straw-free mattress and box spring. Sheets that didn't scratch; soft comforter and sweats. Water in the tap, the toilet inside the loft. Food in the refrigerator and a microwave to heat it. Coffee for breakfast, and bacon and eggs and--

"Meow!"

Five twenty-four. No way. 

"Meow!"

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want any!"

"Me _ow_!!"

"It's not even five thirty," he groused, but he threw off the covers and stalked to the door, knowing that between his dreams and Cat he was doomed anyway.

But what he found in his morning paper wasn't the usual forewarning of disaster. In fact, there weren't any disasters at all. What was more important was what was with the paper. "Names on the tickets and everything," he mumbled at Cat, who ignored him in favor of the water bowl. Gary scratched the back of his neck. "How'd you manage--ah, never mind." 

Thirty seconds later, he was on the phone. "Marissa?" he asked in response to her sleepy, "Hello?"

"No, no, it's okay, nothing's--Marissa, really, I'm okay. Nothing in the paper--well, not exactly. Look, you have a passport, right?" 

He checked the time on the tickets against his watch; tapped the detailed map of southwestern England against the counter.

"How fast can you pack a bag?"  


* * *

_Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn  
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;  
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight  
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of morn._  
~ W. B. Yeats

On the southwest end of the Cornish peninsula, the stones crumbled in the course of centuries, through the drifts of spring flowers and wood smoke, in the cold winter fogs and warm summer hazes and the brace of salt air. The past decayed into the future and rotted and lived anew. The trees whispered secrets older than lifetimes, but even the trees did not outlive the stones, and even the stones would not outlive the blur of flowers, bees, and dragonflies that seemed to come quicker with every passing year.

The caretaker had seen it happen over and over in the plot behind the stone church. It was his job to tend the pulse of a land of the dead, the flowers and grass that pushed up every year through the soil. All but those in the corner farthest from the church. Those came and went without a by-your-leave from Jim, and he knew better than to try to tame them. He had, however, learnt their names over the years: lavender and columbine and crocus and hearts-ease. And dragon's wort, always the dragon's wort. Once a botanist from Cambridge tried to tell him it was properly called bistort, but dragon's wort it had been to Jim's father and his grandfather before him, and dragon's wort it was to Jim. They had always lived here, his family; there had been brief detours to fight wars and find wives and husbands, but they always came back to Gwenyllan. The village was tiny, but it was home.

And such a home. Just teeming with stories for those who had ears to hear and eyes to see. Jim thought he knew all of them, the way he knew the flowers and the graves.

One bright fall morning when the leaves were falling like feathers after a pillow fight, he heard a plaintive mewing at the cemetery entrance. Jim waved the stray tabby through the open gate. "Welcome, little stranger, welcome." A cat in a cemetery was always good luck. Or maybe it was a cat on the hearth. Certainly there was something about cats and luck among all the stories rattling in the depths of his head, but he couldn't pull it out right then.

No matter. He went back to work, raking up the last of the browning oak leaves, and the cat explored the smouldering grey stones. Jim was clearing off Margery Elders's grave when a car he didn't recognize pulled up and parked in the roundabout down in the town centre. It was a rental car, and as soon as he caught sight of the couple who emerged, Jim knew he'd never laid eyes on them. The man was tall and dark-haired, and he wore a leather jacket much like the one Jim had in his RAF days. American, Jim decided. He could always tell.

The woman's skin was a soft brown, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail under a beret, her coat long and blue. The man had a bunch of white roses, the woman had a white cane, and she held his elbow and let him lead her forward. Their lighthearted voices drifted Jim's way as they came up the hill; the woman laughed as the man described the antics of Hairy Pete and Daft Roger, the town's stray dogs, who were on their morning squirrel hunt. The man pointed at the dogs, but the woman's head never turned to follow his gestures.

Jim was about to go meet them at the gate and tell them that the vicar was out of town--he supposed they must have been friends of the vicar, as he did tend to keep unusual company--but the rustling of leaves and the yowling of the cat drew his attention instead. By the time he'd untangled the tabby from the ropes of flowers that crazy old Sarah Tempest had left on her sister's headstone the day before, the visitors had passed both the vicarage and the church and entered the cemetery. They didn't seem to notice Jim; their voices had softened, the laughter finished but still lingering in the air behind them. Strangely, the man seemed to know exactly where he was going. Deftly leading his companion across the uneven ground, where neat rows of headstones gave way to more haphazard monuments in the older part of the cemetery, he stopped only when they reached the far corner. They stood at the timeworn stone with its Celtic carvings, ankle deep in the bright, profuse, indefatigable carpet of flowers that covered that patch of ground from March, long before the other flowers blossomed, through October, long after the others were gone.

The pair was silent for a long, long time, and when they spoke again, the woman initiated the conversation, rubbing the man's arm as if to comfort him; as if--and this was the part that gave Jim goosebumps--as if he could be grieving for someone who'd died in the age of plagues and knights and pirates. How did a couple of Yanks even know about Gwenyllan's little fairy tale churchyard? The woman buried where they stood was someone they never could have met. From the stories Jim had heard, she was more likely to be an ancestor of his black friend than of the man himself. Jim made his way toward them, pretending to rake, but making as little noise as he could.

"...nothing there in writing. I thought it would tell how old she was," the man was saying. "There's not even a name." He looked toward the church, as if gauging the distance, then to the forest. "It has to be hers. I'm pretty sure that this is where her grandmother was buried, and..." He trailed off, not even noticing the fact that Jim, fifty feet away, was staring unabashedly. He looked from the bouquet of store-bought roses in their crinkly plastic wrapping to the wildflowers at his feet. "There're more flowers growing here than they had in that shop at the airport. It looks like June."

"Smells like it, too," the woman said, and smiled. "What a perfect memorial."

"Guess she doesn't need these." Shrugging, the man laid the roses on the next stone over instead, the one carved in the shape of a harp. 

"What about this?" The woman, her expression serious now, undid the silver pin on her coat lapel and held it out to her friend, her head tilted in a question. But no, the man shook his head and folded her fingers back over the pin.

"She wanted you to have it. I think she wanted something of hers to live on." 

Jim frowned at that. Whoever "she" was, she couldn't have been anyone Jim knew. No one had visited that grave, except to pick flowers from it, for as long as he could remember. 

The man picked a sprig of the pink dragon's wort and twirled it between his fingers. The woman reached out and found his hand, squeezing it in a gesture of easy friendship. And in that moment, the man half-turned and saw Jim. He whispered something to his friend, and they walked up to Jim. "Hello," the man began, but they all jumped at the insistent "meow" of the cat behind them. A wide, slow smile spread across the woman's face; with a frown of pure consternation, the man shook his head. The tabby ambled over to the flowers and nibbled on some catnip.

"You work here?" the man asked, and when Jim nodded, he said, "I bet you know a lot about this place."

Jim snorted, "'Course I do." He cast a glance at the village below, knowing that the man meant more than just the cemetery. Then he nodded in the direction the cat had gone. "Could tell you stories about that grave and who's in it, I could."

At that, the man grinned, so thoroughly boyish that Jim knew he was right, would have known even without the accent. American. "So could I."

Jim almost asked them if they had visited before, but that was mad. He would have known about it if they had. 

The woman turned her smile straight at him. "Do you like living here?"

He cocked his head. It wasn't the kind of question Americans usually asked. But then, that grave wasn't the kind of thing Americans ever noticed. Most of them barely noticed Gwenyllan at all.

"It seems a quiet life, Miss, but there's all kinds of things as go on right below the surface, for those that have eyes to see. Begging your pardon, of course."

She laughed, and Jim figured that was leave to ask a question of his own. "How did you find us?"

Nodding toward her companion, she said, "Oh, Gary is a bit of an historian."

"Amateur," the man said quickly, and added under his breath, "Not going pro anytime soon."

"If you'd like to know more, come up to the pub later, and you'll see what I mean. Plenty of stories get told there, they do." He pointed toward the Kettle and Keg. "That there sign says it all--'Fair welcome to strangers.' We're famous for it. As famous as anything gets in these parts," he added with a wink.

"To strangers," the man echoed, and he rolled his eyes when the woman laughed again. But this was a private joke, and they didn't let Jim in on it. "I think we'd like that." He pointed with two fingers at the stone bridge over the river, and the footpath beyond. 

"Does that still lead all the way to the ocean?" he asked.

"Why, yes, it does but begging your pardon, sir, how do you know that? You've not been here before, have you?"

"Not for a long time." He glanced back down at the village centre as he started for the gate. "Not since they took out the well."

There hadn't been a well in Gwenyllan in Jim's entire life. Not in his father's, either. Dumbfounded, the caretaker stared as the pair walked away. The cat trailed them along the path that wound by the river and down to the ocean cliffs. The man's free hand wove the story he was telling his friend, and their laughter drifted back to Jim as they disappeared into the forest on the other side of the bridge.

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that when I started importing this to AO3 (February 17, 2020--almost a month ago), Covid-19 was this small but insistent light blinking in the back of my mind, but it certainly wasn't a conscious reason I thought about this story or started posting it here. Cut to today (March 16, 2020), and we're all in day one (at least here, I know it's been longer elsewhere) of the quarantine homeschool work from home anxiety spiral. I'm not sure what to say about that, except I'm eternally grateful to anyone who's read or will this whole story, past, present, and future.
> 
> [non-infectious virtual]*Hugs*, everyone. Stay safe, wash your hands, and always listen to your grandmothers.


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